Ah. Maybe it’s better that I won’t know what she’s wearing, what Josie Klein looks like before she falls asleep. I flick off my nightstand lamp and everything goes black. There’s a squeak of hinges as the bathroom door opens fully, followed by a soft thud and a muttered oof as she runs into something (the dresser?). Finally, the bed sags as she climbs in on the opposite side.

I’m sharing a bed with Josie Klein. This is so weird.

“Is this weird?” she asks.

“No!” I say, too quickly. “I mean, unless it’s weird for you, and then I’m happy to crash on the floor.”

“No, it’s fine,” she says softly.

We both go silent, and I stare up at the dark ceiling. I can’t stop replaying that kiss, how she tasted like sweet champagne and the salty ocean. I bet she tastes like spearmint now. It would be so easy to roll over and kiss her again, to feel the heat of her hands, the urgency of her touch as she explores my skin. I want to hear that soft moan again, feel the way she thrust herself against me.

Fuck, I’m hard just thinking about it. I turn on my side, away from her, even though she can’t see the effect she has on me.

“I’m sorry,” she says, breaking the silence. “I’ve been so mean to you over the past few weeks.”

My chest tightens with guilt. “I’ve been just as mean. Maybe worse.”

“I don’t know about that. I really wanted to beat you. So badly.”

Wanted? Not sure why she’s speaking in the past tense.

“Xander put us in a shitty position,” I say, shifting so I’m on my back. “How about we stop blaming each other or ourselves?”

A soft chuckle. “I’m always happy to blame Xander.”

We’re silent again, and the sheets rustle as she rolls toward me. Something tickles my arm—her hair. My skin breaks into goose bumps, and I have to clench my hands into fists to keep from reaching over and touching the soft strands.

“So, uh…was it Xander who called my store a bleak existential wasteland?” she says, and I go rigid. In a softer voice, she adds, “And Eddie told me you said there’s not enough caffeine in the entire coffee shop to keep my customers awake.”

My heart sinks; yes, I said those things. No wonder she was so prickly toward me.

“I’ve given you grief about not understanding romance, but—” I swallow. “I’ve done the same to you. I’m really sorry. I was wrong. About your books. And about you.”

“I’m sorry, too,” she says. There’s silence again, like we’re both digesting this.