Page 70 of The Auction
I circle us back to the only thing that matters.
“Your room’s out of commission. You’re sleeping in my room.”
“No,” she says flatly.
“Yes,” I counter.
“I’ll take the couch.”
I shake my head. “Not happening.”
She plants her hands on her hips. “Why? Afraid I’ll get crumbs on your precious throw pillows?”
I step closer, lowering my voice. “Because if you sleep on the couch, I’ll just throw you over my shoulder and tie you to my bed.”
Her lip’s part like she’s not sure whether to be offended or flustered.
I lean in. “And between you and me, I’d fucking love to see what you look like tied to my bed.”
She fights it—puts up one of those stubborn little walls of hers—but it’s a losing battle. Eventually, she exhales through her nose like she’s conceding to a war crime.
“Fine,” she mutters. “But don’t try anything funny.”
She disappears into her damp room for clothes. When she comes back… well, I’ll be damned… I have to actually bite my lip to keep from whistling at her.
She’s wearing my old shirt again.
And… son of a bitch… my boxers.
She doesn’t look at me when she walks in, which is probably for the best, because I’m not hiding the way my eyes track her every step.
I’m already in bed, laying down with my hands behind my head, and watch as she starts building a wall of pillows between us. It’s a process—stacking, adjusting, testing the distance like she’s drafting architectural plans for a fortress. Then she crawls under the covers and makes a point to stretch as far to her side as humanly possible.
I cock a brow. “What is this… a purity fortress?”
“You can’t be trusted.” She barks back as she rolls onto her side so her back’s to me.
I hit the switch on the wall, killing the lights, and exhale a long, slow breath. The sound comes out part sigh, part moan. I feel her tense at it.
There’s a beat of silence that stretches out. Her tension basically radiating around the room.
After a moment, she says quietly, “I was at my studio.”
My brows pull together in the dark. “Huh?”
“Where I was when you asked.”
It takes me a second to process that. She’s finally giving up a piece of her stubborn resolve, and it makes me smile.
“I checked on Mom and the horses,” she continues, “and went to my art studio for a few hours.”
“I’ve never seen a studio at your house.”
“It’s in the barn.”
I think about that for a moment, then nod in the dark.
“Good night, Cricket,” I say, turning onto my side.
