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“It’s not bad,” I defended. I sat on it, sinking in only an inch.
“Uh huh.” She sat beside me and gave me a look, putting her hand on my shoulder. “Jonas. If you’re going to watch movies likeThe Notebook, you have to have a cushy couch to do it on.”
I laughed off my bruised pride. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Good.” She smiled. “Where’s your guest room?”
“Oh shit.”
Her eyebrows drew together. “What?”
“I have a mattress for it. It’s one of those fancy ones that comes in the box, but I haven’t bought a frame yet and I haven’t taken it out of the box, and you’re supposed to let those things air out for twenty-four hours.”
She gave me an amused smile. “And, of course, your couch isn’t at all comfortable to sleep on.”
I pulled at my collar. It really was time to get out of these clothes and hide my embarrassment. “I mean, I can handle the couch for a night. My neck might not be okay, but...”
She shook her head. “You sly dog.”
“What?” I asked, raising my hands in defense. I didn’t know what I was defending against, but I already felt guilty.
“It’s a classic trope.”
Now my eyebrows were raising too. “Trope?”
“It’s like a common staple of a bunch of stories. Like every spy movie has to have a sexy girl with a gun. It’s a trope.”
“Okay... but what does that have to do with my lack of a guest bed?”
She laughed out loud, handing me her backpack. “It’s called ‘only one bed.’ A guy and a girl who aren’t supposed to be together share a bed. Of course, it would be silly for one of them to sleep on the floor or in the bathtub or aninsanely uncomfortable couch.” She gestured toward my sofa. “So, they agree to share the bed, but they both promise to keep their hands to themselves. Of course, they both secretly want to have sex with each other. They fall asleep, and the girl always wakes up first with the guy spooning her with a hard-on.”
God, my ears were hot now. “I didn’t realize I was such a cliché.”
She laughed. “They’re clichés for a reason. So where’s your room?”
Without waiting for my answer, she began walking down the hall. She first peered into the guestroom, where a big box with an indigo mattress sat in the corner, along with a few other boxes I’d never managed to unpack.
“You weren’t lying,” she said, then continued down the hallway. “A home office? Are you a workaholic?”
“Are you saying that to me when you can bring your work with you literally anywhere?” I asked.
“Touché.” She paused at the end of the hallway looking into my bedroom.
I was proud of this room, really. My parents had forever slept on a full-size mattress and shared the house’s single bathroom with my sister and me. And no matter how many times Tess and I offered to help them buy a bigger house or renovate, they always turned us down. They loved their home.
Just like I loved mine.
The room was big enough for a king-sized mattress. In the space next to a big window looking over the back yard, I had set up two comfortable chairs and a table for reading in the morning.
“Oh my gosh,” Mara breathed, stepping inside. “You live in a spa.”
The compliment brought a smile to my face. “Wait until you see the bathtub.”
She walked farther into the room, going through a door on the right, and said, “Shut up!”
There were two walk-in closets and a bathroom that could put any hotel’s to shame, with a soaking tub and glassed-in tiled shower. “It’s nice, right?”
She grinned at me. “So, um, how about I live here, and you take my house?”