Page 84 of Call You Mine
Between getting all our luggage, piling into the shuttle to the hotel, and checking in, I’m beyond the point of exhaustion. I just want to get into my bed and nap until I have to get ready to meet everyone for dinner.
“Where do you want this?” Anderson asks me over his shoulder. He has my suitcase in one hand and his in the other, a backpack hung over his shoulders, his dark hair covered by a backwards baseball cap. “I can put it—” he freezes mid-step.
“What’s wrong?” I close the distance between us, but I understand the second I’m standing next to him, seeing what he’s seeing.
Anderson clears his throat. “It looks like there’s only one bed.”
I groan, not caring how loud it is. Anderson turns to look at me. “There’s supposed to be two doubles, not one king.” I bring my palm up to my forehead, rubbing at the skin as I close my eyes.
“Are you okay?” Anderson asks.
“Fine. Just tired.” A headache blooms at my temples,radiating around my eyes. My forehead is sweaty from the dry, Nevada heat, and my feet are killing me. All I want to do is let my body fall to the floor in defeat and get some rest.
But I don’t even want to think about how gross these floors are.
“Why don’t you lie down? I can go see if Emerson or Rumi and Jack have two beds, and we can switch.”
“No, we can’t do that.” My hand falls back to my side as I open my eyes, letting the moment of feeling sorry for myself come and go. “How would we explain that we need two beds when we’ve been dating for almost ten months and are living together?” I cross my arms, my shoulder leaning on the wall next to me, just to take some pressure off my tired legs. “Oh, and we’re about to get married.”
Anderson rolls our suitcases to the side, shrugs off his backpack, and sets it down on the dresser just under the TV.
“Then I’ll go back downstairs and see if there’s another room available. Why don’t you just lie down?”
“Why would I lie down if we’re going to switch rooms?” I look around the space. Afternoon sunlight pours through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting a pale gold light that washes out the neon of the Strip outside. The air hums softly from the AC, curtains half-drawn against the desert glare. The room is neat and tidy, the bed perfectly made, the remote angled just right on one of the nightstands. “Besides, the concierge said the hotel is fully booked this weekend because of the Cross My Heart tour.”
“Then, I’ll take the couch, and you can take the bed—starting now.”
“We have to be at dinner in?—”
“Three hours,” Anderson interrupts, like it’s obvious.
“But I need to unpack and get ready and?—”
“Ava.” Anderson comes to stand in front of me, and the words die in my mouth, leaving my lips parted. “Take a nap.”
“But—”
“No ‘buts’.” He smiles, the lazy grin stretching over his features. “Isn’t that what you say to Georgie?”
“I don’t like my words being thrown back at me,” I fire back, stepping around him, giving myself a wide berth. I can’t be trusted to look at that smile longer than I have to—not with the way it short-circuits my brain on a day where I’m two cold brews in. I don’t even want to know what it could do when I’m running on fumes.
“And I don’t like clowns.”
I turn around to face him. “What?”
“Now that we’ve each established our fun fact for the day, go to sleep. You can think about what you want to share tomorrow while you’re getting into bed.”
I put my hands on my hips, raising a brow. “I don’t know how I feel about you telling me what to do. I didn’t sign up forthatkind of husband.” Anderson’s eyes slightly widen, and I realize my mistake. “Fakehusband.” I turn toward the bed, grab the comforter, and bring it back before walking over to my suitcase.
Even though I'm tired, I would never get into clean sheets with dirty clothes. I go to lift my suitcase to put it on the dresser, but Anderson grabs it from me, lifting it up for me.
“I don’t know if that’s true,” he says, his voice low. I try to ignore it—andhim—unzipping my suitcase and pulling out my packing cube with my pajamas and lounge wear, neatly packed up and organized so it’s easy to find.
I feel him behind me, his chest just inches away from my back. His lips draw close to my ear, and he makes it almostimpossiblenot to react. “I can think of a few times myfakewife happily did what I told her to,” he whispers.
My breath hitches, desire pooling low in my belly. I don’t want to think about why, or how velvety smooth the word “my wife” fell from his lips, almost making me forget he added “fake” to it.
I clear my throat. “I doubt she knows what you’re talkingabout.” It’s a lazy, stupid comeback, and my voice is too breathy to sound normal, but I’m just happy I was able to form a coherent sentence without my voice cracking.
