“What?” I ask, pulling at the edge of my oversized T-shirt—the one that felt more like a sexual buffer than my skimpier summer jammies. If my goal was to get Nick in my bed, booty shorts would be part of my strategy.

  “Your hair’s all . . .” He waves his hand around his own head like he can’t find the words. “It looks nice.”

  “Oh. Thanks.” I run my fingers through my soft strands and pull them back into a ponytail, securing it with a hair tie from my wrist.

  “Feel better?”

  I exhale, feeling the most refreshed I’ve felt since we left New York. “I do.”

  “Good, ’cause I’ve got somethin’ for ya.” He holds the neck of a Blue Moon beer, swinging it in his hands. “You said you like this kind, right?” It was one of the things that came up on the 85 when he asked me if girls from Texas drink beer.

  “When did you get this?” I take the bottle and spot the half-empty one on the nightstand between the two beds.

  “While you were in the shower. I got some Doritos too.” He holds up a family-sized bag. Between the junk food and sitting on my bum all day, I’ll be ten pounds heavier before we reach Los Angeles. But how can I resist him? I mean the beer and chips.

  He grabs his bottle and tilts it my way. “Wanna throw these back and watch some Seinfeld? I hooked up my media player.”

  “Sure, but I don’t know if I remember how to relax and watch a show anymore.”

  “It’s easy. Just watch me. I’ll show you how to do it.” He relaxes back onto his pillow and smacks his lips, letting out a super satisfactory sigh. “See?”

  I giggle at his little demonstration, then grab my garbage bag pillow and mimic his position on my own bed. “Like this?”

  He raises his beer. “You got it.” There’s nothing remotely sexy about this situation—I might as well be wearing my retainer. But lounging on a bed so close to Nick, even if it’s not the same bed, is alarmingly arousing. So I swallow the sensation with a swig of beer (because I’m sure drinking an inhibition-dulling substance will help the situation). “I’ll load up your favorite episode.”

  “ ‘The Contest’?” Good idea. Watching that episode will only reinforce the idea of sexual deprivation.

  “Yep.” He clicks the remote and that unforgettable bass-slapping Seinfeld score begins. Ten minutes in, we’re cringing and cackling at all the classic moments, nursing our beers, and crunching tortilla chips—our respective beds are littered with Cool Ranch crumbs. When Nick laughs, he really laughs. The sound is deep and warm and he doesn’t try to hamper it with a hand over his mouth. His eyes crinkle at the corners. His Adam’s apple dances. We seem to find humor in all the same things so our laughter’s perfectly in sync.

  In some ways, this might even be better than sex.

  Nick catches me looking at him and I gulp back my beer, turning my attention to the show. “You wanna watch another one?” he asks.

  “Yes, please.” I set my drink down and settle under the covers with the blankets pulled up to my chin, then peek my foot out of the corner, only to tuck it back in again from the chilly air. “Hey, Nick, would you mind turning down the AC? It’s really cold,” I ask, wondering how a room in Atlanta in the middle of summer could get this frosty.

  “What?” he says with his hand digging in the Doritos bag. “I didn’t hear what you said because I was eating a chip.”

  I chuckle. “I said can you turn down the AC?”

  “You mean turn it up?”

  “No, turning it up means making it colder. I want it warmer.”

  “If you want it warmer, I have to turn it up. Higher temperatures are warmer than lower temperatures. Don’t they teach you this stuff in college?”

  Right when I was getting all relaxed, he wants to razz me. “We’re not all trade school graduates, Nick, and I didn’t say turn the temperature down, I said turn the AC down.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “Never mind. I’ll do it myself.” I throw the covers off and march over to the unit beneath the window next to his bed.

  He lays propped up on his elbow, watching me with my erect finger hovering over the controls. “See that red arrow pointing up? Press that one.”

  Hahahahaha! Seinfeld’s live studio audience chimes in.

  I shoot him a sideways glance and reluctantly press the up button. “I stand by my phrasing.”

  * * *

  —

  Later that night, I wake up, shivering beneath my covers so much you’d think I was in one of those sleazy-motel vibrating beds. I slip on my glasses. It’s after midnight. Nick left the light on but he’s nowhere in sight. Where’d he go?

  “Nick?” No answer. Did he turn the AC down (I mean up) just to screw with me while he snuck out with some friend? “No funny business, my ass,” I say, teeth chattering like one of those windup toys.

  I shuffle over to the AC and hit the off switch. Like a zombie, the damn thing doesn’t die. “You gotta be kidding me.” I try again, on and off, on and off, but it blows on. Great. Of all the motels in downtown Atlanta, we’ve got the one with the AC ghost.

  Then, the door swings open and I catch a glimpse of something white floating just above the carpet in my peripheral.

  What in the . . .

  “Ahh!” I scream, jolting back on my butt, clutching the drapes.

  “Ahh!” A horror-filled man-scream echoes back. Where’s the damn pepper spray when you need it? I blink and take in the spine-chilling stranger.

  Oh, hahahaha, it’s just Nick.

  “Why are you draped in a blanket?” I ask, yanking myself up.

  The door slams shut behind him. “I just spent the last twenty minutes at the front desk trying to get them to do something about this piece-of-shit AC.”

  “And?”

  “They just gave me a couple extra blankets and said good luck.” He plops a folded blanket on my bed and swaddles himself tighter.

  “Can’t we open a window or something?” I rub my shoulders briskly, tottering over to my suitcase for a pair of warm socks and my hooded sweatshirt—which was a total afterthought.

  He flops back into bed and rolls himself in the blankets like a burrito. “Nope, they’re just for show.”

  “Figures,” I say, dressing my feet. I never sleep in socks. Not even when there’s snow on the ground.

  “Is that where you went to college?” Nick asks, and I glance down at the UT logo.

  “Yep. Hook ’em horns.” I flash him the Longhorns sign, just long enough to perform my obligatory alumni duty, then huddle under layers of blankets.

  “Football fan, huh?” he asks.

  “Of course. It’s part of a Texan’s DNA.”

  “Right . . . you think we can sue the motel?”

  “For what? Meat lockering?”

  He chuckles through chattering teeth. “But seriously, can it get any colder in here?”

  The answer to that is yes. By two in the morning, the two of us are out of bed again. Desperate for warmth, we’ve gathered anything that resembles fabric from around the room and now we’re on to the curtains.

  No joke.

  Nick’s balancing on the wheeled desk chair wearing his leather jacket while I hold it steady. “How in the hell do I unclip these?”

  “Who cares? Just rip ’em down!” So much for a good night’s rest.

  “You know, we could stay warmer if we slept in the same bed.”

  I slowly turn my head to see if he’s serious. I think he is. Me, Nick, one bed? Sounds amazing, but it’s way too risky. Especially after I catch a glimpse of his abs when he stretches up for the curtain rod. “Probably better not to share anything tonight except an oddball road story.”

  “I’m not trying to get you between the sheets, but I feel like Leo in The Revenant with his frosty-ass beard and frostbitten mouth. What if we get hypothermia?”

  I want to tell him that he’s being dramatic, but my fingers and toes are now numb. “Curtains first.”

  So here we are, bundled beneath every blanket, towel, and pillow we can find, topped off with the damn blackout drapes from the window. Nearly an hour later, I’m shivering too much to sleep. Maybe my eyelids are frozen too. I can’t hear Nick breathing, which means either he already froze to death or he can’t sleep either. I shut my eyes tight for a moment, praying I don’t regret this.

  “Psst! Nick.”

  Twenty

  Are you awake?” I whisper at his horizontal back, gripping the blanket to my chin.

  “Yeah, I’m awake,” he says like he’s been lying with his eyes open the whole time.

  I swallow hard. “I think you were right about hypothermia.” We both know this isn’t actually possible given that it’s only about fifty-something degrees in here, but I’m hoping he’ll make this easy on me and take the bait so I don’t have to come out and ask.

  “So . . .”

  I wait for him to say more but he doesn’t. “So, should we . . .”

  “Should we what?”

  Does he really not know or is he screwing with me? I try again. “Maybe it’s a good idea that we, you know?”

  “Ooh, I see. You’re down to snuggle now.” Oh, yeah, he’s screwing with me. Too bad we can’t solve this issue with an old-fashioned screw.

  I swallow my desires and say, “No, I’m not down to snuggle. But I’m . . .”

  “You’re what?”

  You see, a gentleman wouldn’t make me say it. But Nick’s a comedian. “I’m up for sharing the bed. Just because I can’t feel my face.”

  He rises from his mattress, gathering all the miscellaneous linens and shuffling over like a big, dopey blanket monster. Apparently the cuddly type. He freezes over me. Not literally, of course, but I feel it’s necessary to clarify. “Do I have your consent?” he asks.

  “Consent for what?” What does he think is happening here?

  “Do I have your permission to lie down next to you?”

  “Obviously.”

  “No, not obviously. A man in my position should get consent.”

  “Oh my god.” I don’t think he’s joking. And while I appreciate that he’s trying to be respectful, I prefer that he shut up, get in this bed, and radiate some damn body heat my way so I can get some shut-eye. “Yes, you have permission to lie next to me.”

  “Since you’re an attorney, can you say, ‘I, Olivia Vincent, Esquire, hereby grant—’ ”

  “Nick! Stop screwing around and get in the bed. I’m freezing my ass off!”

  “Okay, I’ll allow it.” He throws his blankets, towels, and curtain on top of mine. The weight of it all is already an improvement. Still, the tiny hairs on my skin stand up at attention when he climbs in next to me, settling on his back. “I totally get killing horses now,” he says.

  Huh? What kinda psycho-slaughter-babble is this? “Okay, I changed my mind. Go back to your own bed.”

  “No, I’m talking about sleeping in a carcass for warmth. You know, cowboy style. Don’t you do that in Texas?”

  I roll my eyes, too cold to laugh. “Believe me, if I had a horse right now, we would not be sharing a bed.”

  He scoots himself a little closer, and the tip of his pinky finger just barely touches my knee, but it’s enough to send my heart racing to a steady gallop. “Am I too close?” he whispers gently. I’m far closer to Nick than I should ever allow. The heat of his body warms the space between us, and all I want to do is close that space. Maybe even lie beneath him for just a little while. For survival, I mean.

  “No, you’re fine,” I say.

  “Okay, good, because your body’s hot.”

  “What?” I feel myself warm up in a way I haven’t for so long, and bite my bottom lip.

  “I mean your body heat is helping.”

  “Oh.” His clarification does little to stamp out this fire that’s beginning to blaze inside me. Every inch of my body is responding to him. The way his breath moves slowly in and slowly out. The leftover scent of his sweet cologne. There’s a whirling in my belly as my breath grows heavier.

  “Good night, Olivia,” he utters softly.

  I close my eyes and fill my lungs with the chilled air. “Good night.”

  * * *

  —

  It’s not long before I finally drift off. And with Nick keeping my bed warm, I sleep soundly until the sun comes up. The AC drones on, pushing out arctic air. When I open my eyes, Nick’s snoozing next to me—snug as a man in a motel curtain. And oh so dreamy . . .

  He stirs and his eyes peek open like he can sense I’m awake. “Are you watching me?” His accusation is enough to jolt me out of this snuggly sleepover.

  “Don’t flatter yourself. I just woke up.” If it weren’t so warm next to him, I’d hop out of bed and march as far away from him as I could.

  He takes in a deep morning inhale and rubs his face. “I actually slept pretty good, considering your snoring.”

  I have no defense so I say, “Same.”

  He turns to me, taking in my morning look, and I pull the sheet up over my chin and mouth. “I didn’t want to say this last night, but you fart in your sleep too.”

  That’s it. My face is now officially the hottest thing in the room. I gasp and shove him away. “I do not!”

  He laughs, blocking my playful blows. “If you say so.”

  “Don’t be gross,” I say, silently praying it’s not true. But if it is, it’s probably for the best. The more barriers between Nick and me, the better.

  Nick presses his lips together, stifling his laughter. “I’m just bustin’ your chops. And anyway, my ears were too frozen to hear anything.”

  Whew! Now that’s a relief (and not the audible kind). Too bad having this conversation in this context first thing in the morning is uber embarrassing. You know how hard it is to humiliate a stand-up? “Just for that I’m never sleeping next to you again. I don’t care how cold it is.” Or how hot he is, for that matter.

  “Were you planning on sleeping with me again?” he asks.

  I sit up, the motel curtain draping my chest. The room is like a cold pool that I’m slowly making my way into, inch by inch. “Let’s get something straight. We didn’t sleep together. We slept in the same bed. There’s a big difference. Capeesh?” Don’t be fooled. I’m saying this for my benefit. Not his.

  “That’s too bad for you,” he says, climbing out from under the sheets and stretching his arms wide.

  I find my glasses on the nightstand and watch Nick slowly peel one of the towels from the bed. “Why?”

  He looks me right in the eye. “Because I’m really good at sex.”

  And it’s like the mic drops. Or is that my jaw? I don’t know because I can’t think or breathe. That’s it. I don’t care. Screw the rules. Screw my better judgment. I want to screw him—

  Clunk. Clink.

  The AC unit makes a crinkly sound and craps out. Nick and I freeze then whip our heads toward it. Not a breath of air comes out.

  “Is it?” I toss the covers off me and we give it a few more seconds.

  “It is.”

  Nick and I grin like we’ve just won the battle with the AC beast. We cheer at a decibel that will definitely wake the neighbors. But who cares? The damn thing is dead! With our arms flung open, I leap into his for a victory hug. He spins me around, our noses just inches from each other’s as we celebrate. That’s when I realize that this is the closest I’ve ever been to Nick, and by the look in his eyes, he’s feeling it too. I could. He could. What’s stopping us?

  We drop each other instantly and he walks away.

  “I’m gonna take a shower,” he says, trying to sound casual. But we both know what just happened even if nothing happened.

  “Okay,” I call in a pitch that’s way too high for seven in the morning. The bathroom door closes behind him, and I glance back at my bed with its piles of covers.

  Oh, boy.

  Twenty-One

  I’ve been tapping my pen on my yellow legal pad for the last thirty-four minutes. I was hoping to get a little writing in but I’ve just been sitting here trying to convince myself that everything that happened between Nick and me in the last eight hours is totally normal. I throw my head back, downing the rest of the lobby coffee.

  That’s where I’ve been since Nick locked himself in the bathroom—the lobby. And in case you’ve never been in a motel lobby, it’s extremely . . . underwhelming. There are no real chairs. Just a couple of stools against a tiny bar in an alcove next to a couple of old vending machines. The smell of ammonia battles with one of those air freshener sprays with a name like Garden Spring or Fresh Linen—but there’s nothing fresh about it.

  “I thought I might find you here.” Nick’s voice startles me and he tosses a fast-food breakfast sandwich on my legal pad.

  “What’s this for?” I ask, averting my eyes.

  “It’s for eating, Olivia. Didn’t think I’d need to explain that one to you.” He takes the stool next to mine and unwraps his greasy sausage biscuit. I peel back the crinkly wrapping, melted cheese sticking to it, and my gut grumbles eagerly. “I know how much you like bacon,” he says with a full mouth.

  “Thanks.” I finally look over at him chewing away. His hair seems softer this morning for some reason. Everything about him feels softer. Would it be wrong to crawl back in bed and cuddle with him right now?

  My mind’s telling me no, but oh, my body . . .

  I try to picture him with a cigarette in his mouth but it’s not working.

  “You’re welcome. I’ve never met a woman who loves greasy fast food as much as I do.”