I grin up at him and saunter over to the couch, where I place my wine on the coffee table before falling back dramatically against the cushions. “Fine, bring me more pillows and blankets. I’ll be a good girl and go to sleep.”

“This is where you’re going to sleep?”

“Where else would I sleep?”

He shrugs, which only makes me grin.

“I didn’t realize the invitation extended to your bedroom.”

He looks everywhere but at me. “You could sleep on my terrace for all I care.”

“Sounds like you really want me in your bed.”

“I don’t.”

“Well, if you insist.”

I finish off my glass of wine, turn off the TV, and make my way towards the stairs that lead into Asher’s loft.

The small upstairs is just an extension of the downstairs. Modern and industrial and simple. A black bed frame sits against an exposed brick wall that’s lined with a floating shelf that houses two lamps and two potted bonsai trees. Beneath a thick, white duvet, I see a familiar pattern on his sheets. But it’s not the snowmen that take me by surprise—it’s what’s in the corner.

“You have a bathtub in your bedroom,” I say, “A bathtub that’s filled with shoes.”

“I told my realtor that a tub in the bedroom was impractical,” he says as he walks over to his dresser, pulling open the top drawer. “She insisted it sets a mood.”

“I imagine coming home to me up to my neck in bubbles would set a mood.”

I watch his hand tense around a t-shirt. “I think it’s much more suited for storage.”

He says that now, but when he does come home and finds me up to my neck in bubbles, he’ll definitely have a change of heart.

“Here.” He hands me a long-sleeved shirt that’s cerulean blue and orange.

“You’re a Mets fan?”

“Kills my father a little every day.”

“We should get married at Citi Field,” I tell him. “Really put the nail in the coffin.”

He rolls his eyes at me and pushes me towards the bathroom door.

“You didn’t give me pants,” I tell him.

“I believe you told me you don’t trust people who wear pants to bed.”

“I know, but it’s still polite to offer. You might give a girl the wrong idea.”

“Would you like pants, Olivia?”

“Of course not,” I say. “Who wears pants to bed?”

It doesn’t take me long to change, but I take a few extra seconds to snoop. Asher has a weird amount of floss and quite the selection of condoms. If my calculations are correct, he should be much happier if he’s having this much sex. I want to bring a handful back into the room with me, but I fear he might have an actual aneurysm.