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I always bring a bottle of water for the nightstand but my palm slaps against empty space.Ugh.

A line of light filters in from underneath the bedroom door and I fumble for my glasses. The guys must be home by now, and one of them is still awake.

Which means I need to stay put.

My dry mouth makes it impossible.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed, toes touching down on the cool floor. The light’s coming from the tv in the living room instead of one of the bedrooms.

A glance down the hall shows Soren’s door is shut. It’s gotta be Aiden.

I pad down the hall and stop, narrowing in on him sprawled across the couch with one arm thrown over the back. His legs are splayed and he twists his head to lock eyes with me.

“Can’t sleep?” I ask.

My voice echoes strangely in the quiet. He’s got the TV volume down so low I barely hear anything despite the action scene and the massive explosion on screen.

He moves suddenly, drawing the blanket across his knees further up his lap and setting his phone aside.

My stomach flips.

“It’s nothing new,” he answers hoarsely. “It’s one of my many talents. I avoid sleep like the plague.”

And apparently comes out here to touch himself. I’ve gota pretty good idea that the action flick is only a ruse while he watches the real show on his phone.

Heat spreads from my chest, and the tips of my fingers start to prickle.

I’m entirely too aware of the thin shorts and tank top I’m wearing. Embarrassment heats my cheeks and neck.

“I guess I’m not the only one in the house with insomnia,” Aiden adds.

I’m drawn to his lap. Aiden’s eyes bore into mine and I feel it from the top of my head to the tips of my toes, my skin going tight. An ache settles between my legs.

My mouth is drier yet.

“I’m just getting some water,” I whisper. “Thirsty.”

Now I’ve got a feeling I’ll be thirsty for something else. I force my gaze away.

Aiden’s still wearing the Henley he changed into for dinner but traded the jeans for his comfortable pair of gray sweatpants. His feet are bare.

What kind of view will I have if he ditches the blanket?

Is he hard? Or was he just playing a game on his cell?

His throat bobs and I drag myself into the kitchen.

“How was dinner?” I ask, just loud enough for him to hear me. “Did you have fun?”

I flip the tap and fill up a glass, waiting for him to answer. This is my attempt to keep things light when my mind goes straight back to places it doesn’t belong. Is it working?

Not one bit.

“It’s always a good time when the guys get together,” Aiden replies. He clears his throat. “We ate great food and got shit-faced from whiskey shots.”

Needles of awareness drag across the back of my neck. He’s still watching me.

“No trouble in town? You know, from the terrifying locals you’ve warned me about.”