Really, what’s happening to me?

I can’t say, exactly. I just know that tonight I’m a lot more nervous about sharing a bed with Diego than I was yesterday.

Fifteen

The Night Before Christmas

In my room, I change into my cat PJs while Diego is in the bathroom and wait for him to come to bed already stashed under the sheets. And, I’m not sure why, but I even go as far as picking up Mr. Darcy from the comforter and relocating him to the armchair in the corner. Unhappy with the move, the cat curls up and stares at me in resentment.

“Sorry,” I whisper.

When Diego comes in, the absence of the cat from the bed is the first thing he notices.

“So his royal highness is not gracing us with his presence tonight?”

I shrug. “Sharing a bed with us is an honor he doesn’t bestow easily. Mr. Darcy likes to keep his subjects on their toes. Don’t you?” I add in a silly voice.

The cat throws me a you-traitor stare, whips his tail in the air once, and then settles his head on his paws, probably deciding that ignoring me completely is punishment enough.

“Oh, you’re such a sourpuss,” I tell him.

But as Diego climbs into bed next to me, the cat drama is quickly forgotten. My whole body tenses under the covers for no reason. There’s enough free space between me and Diego that not an inch of our bodies is touching. Still, there’s a strong warmth emanating from his side of the bed, as if the air surrounding him was shimmering. Or maybe I’m making the air shimmer with heat whenever I think about that kiss today.

“You want to read or something?” I ask.

“No, I’m good.”

“Should I kill the lights, then?”

“Yeah.”

I turn to switch off the bedside lamp, and burrow deeper under the covers. “Good night.”

“Night,” comes Diego’s whispered answer.

I lie there, with my arms along my sides rigid as a mummy, staring into the dark with all my senses on high alert. From the utter silence on my right, I can tell Diego isn’t sleeping, either. Not a single breath coming out of him. What is he doing? What is he thinking?

Something brushes against my right pinky. At first, the touch is so light I think I’ve imagined it. But then Diego’s fingers tickle mine again in an unmistakable move, his thumb sweeping over my knuckles in a soft caress. And the simple skin-on-skin contact is enough to make me experience a charge like a static shock. A flow of current that shoots up from my hand to my arm, then to the rest of me.

Swallowing my sudden agitation, I return his touch, keeping my movements just as gentle and light. Until our fingers are intertwined in a firm lock. Diego’s thumb massages my palm in slow circles. I never thought of my hands as erogenous points, but I was wrong. This seemingly-innocent fondling is doing the weirdest things to me.