“Wow,” Nick mutters, sliding under the blankets. “Thanks for the compliment.”

I realize too late that he’s misinterpreting the way I mean “upsetting.” He thinks I mean unattractive, but what I actually mean is . . . well, too attractive, and disruptive to my sleep.

It’s just as well that he thinks it’s the former, though. I lean over to switch off the light on my nightstand and he does the same, meaning that I’m forced to listen to the rustle of him removing his clothing as I lie in the darkness. My entire body feels like a malfunctioning toaster, like I’m too hot and shooting off sparks and someone’s gonna get burned.

I close my eyes and try to go to sleep—after all, I’m bone tired after a long trip in Nick’s truck plus the entire day of us arguing on the convention floor—but it’s sort of like when a small child pretends to be asleep. I’m about two seconds away from pretending to snore.

I’ve resigned myself to spending the entire night awake when Nick says, “I’m sorry, Chloe.”

I jump, the nearness of his voice in the dark a shock. “For what?” I ask, staring at the ceiling.

“For being an asshole today. About the interview, and Mikey Menace—”

“It’s Danger and you know it.”

“Fine. Mikey Danger. But . . . it’s your life. You can do whatever you want.”

“Yeah, well,” I say lightly. “You’re my boss.”

“At work, not anywhere else. And I think we both know I’m your boss in name only.”

I turn to face him, not that I can see him in the darkness. “What does that mean?”

The pillow crinkles and the mattress groans as he turns to face me. “You do everything at the shop. You’re always working, you know our customers better than I do, your ideas are way better than mine . . .”

I snort. “You don’t have to flatter me to get me into bed, you know. I’m already here.”

“I’m not joking, Chloe. That shop is as much yours as it is mine.”

“Maybe we should name it Nick and Chloe’s,” I say.

“It does have a nice ring to it.”

“Yeah,” I say softly. “It does.”

My eyes are adjusted enough to the darkness now that I can see the outline of his face in the slight glow of the streetlamps shining in through the curtains. I can’t see his expression, but I can tell he’s looking at me. It feels like he’s looking at all of me, like he’s seeing something I don’t even have words for. Part of me wonders what would happen if I said, “Hey, Nick, remember that thing we pinky swore about? The thing we promised not to talk about?” Part of me wonders what would happen if I cut out all the preamble and leaned over and kissed him. Would he want me to? Should I ask him? Should I . . .

“What do you want, Chloe?” Nick asks.