Page 39 of Mr. Brightside

I’m in Jake’s bed.

I slept (or, if I’m honest, barely slept) in his bed last night. I knew this was the arrangement. But I really hadn’t thought it through.

The plush charcoal gray sheets and comforter smell so distinctly of him it’s like I’m lying in a fluffy cloud of Jakeness. Vanilla. Musk. Something poignantly familiar and addictively delicious. My senses are overwhelmed by him, and he’s not even in the damn room.

I curl up slowly, letting a full-body yawn work through me and hoping it’s not too early to get up for the day.

Because that’s the thing: I spent the night here for the first time, meaning that while I was tossing and turning in the bedroom last night, Jake was camped out on the couch, just like he promised. Even though things already feel different from they did four days ago when he proposed this arrangement.

I was disappointed when we got home last night and he didn’t make any moves to pick up where we left off at Clinton’s. He showed me where to park. Gave me an overview of all the space he’d cleared out for me. Helped me carry up and organize the carload of belongings and clothes I’d brought with me. Then gave me a lingering-but-chaste kiss, told me to come get him if I needed anything, and left me alone.

I reach across the nightstand for my water bottle but silently curse when I find it empty. I wasn’t even thirsty until I realized water wasn’t an option. Now I’m so parched I can’t accumulate enough spit to swallow.

I’m petrified with indecision. Do I fill my water bottle in the en suite bathroom? Do I risk sneaking into the kitchen and waking him?

Or maybe the real question is: do I risk sneaking into the kitchen and letting him see me like this?

I’m not second-guessing our marriage. I’m all in with this plan.

But that doesn’t mean I’m not so nervous I might puke.

I shake my head a few times to rattle myself out of the anxiety spiral looming over me. I’m marrying the man later today, for crying out loud. I should be able to stumble into the kitchen with bedhead for a water refill without overthinking it.

Still.

I slowly guide the bedroom door open but wince when it creaks as I slip out of the room.

“Good morning.”

His words startle me so badly I yelp and drop my water bottle. The metal clangs against the polished wood floor. I cringe as I scoop it up and assess the damage. There’s a little dent in the floor near where it hit, but I have no idea if that’s new or not. Do I ask him? Do I offer to… what? Use his money to pay to have it fixed?

“Cory.”

My name is a two-syllable benediction laced with emotion. On command, I lift my head to look at him. I could scurry away. I could lock my feelings down. Instead, I show him everything.

I stand there in my doubt, radiating unease and worry, and I let him see me. Rumpled. Frazzled. Anxious. And now, apparently, dehydrated.

We stand across from each other like that: me positioned at one end of the kitchen, his feet firmly planted at the far end of the living room. Seconds tick by as the tension builds between us. He’s staring at me with an intensity that should unnerve me. But this is Jake. I’m galvanized by his gaze, assured that even though this is the craziest shit I’ve ever done in my life, it’ll be okay. He’ll make sure of it.

He doesn’t break eye contact as he finally approaches. When he leans into my space, I feel his hot, minty breath on my face.

“I’m going to get a workout in before we get ready. You’re welcome to join me if you want to blow off some steam.”

He pulls back quickly, brushing past me to head down the hall to the second bedroom he’s transformed into a gym.

Was that an invitation? I stand there, perplexed, and now thirsty in a completely different way.

I fill up my water bottle and screw the lid on tighter than necessary, not trusting my hands to hold steady now. I pop back into the bedroom to make the bed and change into a cutoff, athletic shorts, and sneakers. What I’ll do when I join him in the gym is beyond me. I just want to be in his orbit.

I can hear him as I make my way down the hall. When I reach the doorway and peek inside, my heart catches in my throat.

There he is: shirtless, straddling a bench, dumbbell in hand, dripping in sweat, radiating sex appeal. He’s facing away from the door, but on full display thanks to the mirrors lining the front and side walls.

I freeze in the doorframe. Not because I don’t want to go in. But because I’m spellbound by the show.

Every time he lifts the weight, he grunts. It’s not quiet, either. It’s deep. Guttural. Pornographic in the best possible way. Each grunt skates down my spine and tugs at my core.

I’m so transfixed watching his bronzed skin glisten with sweat and the muscles in his arms bulge that it takes my brain a second to register when he’s finished his set.