Desperately trying to get her thoughts back in order, Molly cleared her throat as she worked out the best arrangement. She didn’t feel right about offering up Felicity’s bed to a random guy—not that John was acting like a random anything these days. “You can have mine.” She waved toward the right side of the room, relieved that she at least had a full-size bed. It would’ve been mortifying if she and Felicity had kid-sized bunkbeds or something. Besides, there was no way that John’s height and muscular bulk would’ve fit in a twin. Shaking away that slightly ridiculous mental picture, she forced herself to focus on what needed doing. “Hang on. Let me get you some clean sheets.”

His eyebrow and the corner of his mouth rose at the same time, giving him that familiar devilish look that signaled he was about to tease her. “Yours are…dirty, then?” The emphasis he put on dirty gave a whole new meaning to the word.

“No.” She was too tired to not get flustered, and that annoyed her. Normally, she prided herself on coolly volleying back whatever John served to her, but it had been a long day—several long days, in fact—and she could feel her face heat with a flush. “Not dirty dirty. I changed them a few days ago. Just, you know, sluffed skin cells and a few stray hairs, that sort of thing.” Okay, she needed to stop talking immediately. Unfortunately, her mouth wasn’t getting the message. “Nights have been cool recently, so I haven’t been sweating, but the sheets probably still smell like me.”

His smirk slowly grew until it was a full grin as he eyed her bed with more lasciviousness than it really deserved. “I’ll use these sheets.”

“But—” She took a step toward her bed, suddenly feeling all sorts of weird about John spending the night wrapped in sheets that she’d rolled around in. It was strangely hot, and that made her squirm.

Before she could strip the bed or finish her objection, he’d maneuvered himself in front of her, blocking her access. If she took even a half step closer, they would be touching. “I’ll be fine,” he said. Although the words were reassuring, there was a deeper timbre to his voice that definitely was not. “Where’s the bathroom?”

“All the way down the hall,” she answered automatically, her brain caught up in the overwhelming proximity of him. “Last door on the left. Why do you smell like bubble gum?”

He blinked. “I do not.”

“You do.”

“I do not smell like bubble gum. I’m not a sticky six-year-old.”

Suddenly realizing the ridiculousness of their argument, she shifted back and mentally changed gears. “Fine. You don’t smell like bubble gum, even though you really do. Hurry up in the bathroom. As soon as you’re done, I want to take a shower. Dutch’s and that empty warehouse left a film of grossness on me.”

He scowled at her, looking like he was dying to continue their discussion, but he clamped his mouth closed with a tight nod and moved to the door instead. At the last second before he disappeared down the hall, he turned back toward her. “Leave those sheets on,” he said, a trace of his usual smirk back in place.