Page 46 of Rule 3: Never Fake Marry the Coach's Son

His throat bobs. “What do you mean?”

“No nudity in Sweden?”

“Um... They’re not Puritans there.”

I nod. I know that word. Massachusetts history is all about Puritans.

The awkwardness follows us to bed. Oskar changes in the bathroom, and when he emerges in flannel pajamas, he approaches the bed with a pained expression more similar to people walking the plank.

“Is very nice mattress,” I assure him, patting the memory foam. “Medium firm.”

“That’s nice.” His gaze darts everywhere but at me, even though I’m way more interesting to look at than the wall or whatever else he could be focusing on.

Finally, he slides under the covers. I mean, I think he’s in the bed. He’s pretty thin, and the mattress doesn’t dip or anything. I roll over to look at him, and yes, there he is. He moves back, and I frown. I raise my torso to check something .

Yep, he’s totally squished at the very end of his side of the mattress.

“You can move closer,” I say.

“Um...”

“It’s just me.”

For some reason, he only looks more panicked when I say that. “I’m comfortable.”

“You’re going to roll off if you get any closer to the edge.”

“I like it,” he says. “It’s, um, airy.”

I roll my eyes, then I sigh and pull him toward me. I pat his pillow. “Put your head on that.”

He does so obediently.

“See? Isn’t that better?”

“I guess,” he says, but his voice doesn’t sound normal.

“We’ve slept beside each other before,” I remind him.

“We’ve never slept together!”

I stare.

He blushes.

“I mean—”

“On the plane,” I remind him. “How many times have you fallen asleep against me?”

“I have?” I hate the horror in his voice.

I nod. “You’re very cuddly. Just pretend we’re on a plane.”

“Okay,” he says, but his voice still sounds strained.

I sigh and pull him toward me, wrapping him into a hug. His breath only quickens, which is so not the point of my hugs. He flips so he’s facing the ceiling, and we lie side by side, contemplating the dark ceiling.

“I’m sorry I dragged you into this.”