Page 40 of Fall For Me
Is she nervous? Or is she attracted to me?
More troubling: Am I attracted to her?
The question hits me square in the chest, bypassing the bulletproof vest of logistics and sarcasm I’ve been wearing all day. I’ve been so focused on getting her on board, on convincing my parents, on managing the fallout from her ex, that I haven’t stopped to examine what I feel when I look at her. The answer, when I let myself consider it, is inconvenient.
“I’ll sleep on top of the covers.” I steer us back to practicality. “Use a separate comforter. We won’t even touch.”
“Won’t two comforters be suspicious to your Sherlock Holmes housekeeper?”
“Alice will assume you prefer an extra blanket. Or that I steal the sheets. It makes us seem more real, not less.”
Peyton throws her hands in the air, the sleeves of Lila’s too-big sweater flapping like wings. “Is this how this marriage is going to go? You just… getting your way about everything?”
The frustration in her voice slaps me with guilt. She’s right. I’ve been bulldozing her from the moment I proposed this arrangement. My timeline, my rules, my house, my bed. I’ve given her protection and resources, but I’ve taken all the control.
“You’ll call the shots on everything else, I promise. But on this, please do as I ask.”
“Okay, but that’s it.”
I wince. “I have only one more tiny request.”
Her jaw drops. “If you’re about to tell me you sleep naked, I’m walking out that door and filing for divorce. Tonight. I don’t care how good your lawyers are.”
My lips twitch. “I’ll come to bed in a parka if you prefer. Full Antarctic expedition gear.”
She doesn’t laugh, but the tension around her eyes eases.
“Then what’s the request?”
I take a breath, readying myself to hand her a jagged piece of truth I haven’t given to anyone. Not even Lila.
“I need you not to bring your phone into the room.”
Her expression shifts from wary to bewildered. “What?”
“Leave it charging somewhere else. Don’t bring it to bed.”
“Why? So when you try to murder me in my sleep, I can’t call for help?”
“No.” I almost smile at the accusation, but the weight of what I’m about to say kills any humor. “Since that meme of me went viral—” I pause, hating that I have to explain this. “I haven’t been able to fall asleep next to anyone.”
“So you’re worried I’m going to take a picture of you drooling and post it on my socials?”
“I know I’m being paranoid. But last night was the first time in over a year I slept with someone.”
Understanding dawns across her features, chased by surprise.
The implications of that statement swirl behind her eyes. Questions gather in the brown depths:Does he mean he hasn’t slept next to anyone in a year? Or that he hasn’t had sex for that long?
But she doesn’t ask. And I don’t volunteer the truth.
The silence stretches between us, not heavy, but shaping itself around the exposed roots of our secrets. It’s the intimacy ofa shared shadow, a silent acknowledgment we both have ghosts that come haunting us in the night.
“Okay,” she says.
“Really?”
“Yeah. No phones in the bedroom.” She points a finger at me. “But in the next three to five years, there will be things I want that you won’t want to do. And when that happens, you owe me two.”
