Page 62 of Rule 4: Never Get Stranded with a Sports Reporter

Jason is probably trying to sleep.

Or rather, I know Jason is trying to sleep. He’s lying next to me, being quiet, like what happens when people try to sleep. This is a fact, not conjecture or any of those not for certain things.

If only my watch still had power. I long to dictate all my thoughts about Jason. Because I have many. He’s not the conceited man I thought he was.

He chuckles beside me. “I thought the point of the fire was to warm ourselves. Why do you want to warm rocks, Cal? They don’t have a nervous system.”

“Yeah. You’re right.”

He swings over to me, so his face is right beside my face. His eyes are darting over me. My skin heats at his attention, even though I know it’s dark and he can’t really see me.

“I think they would be warm on our toes,” I say. “That’s what happens with fire. Things get... hot.” My words drift into the dark.

“Yeah. That’s right.”

Our conversation is horrible. I don’t sound like a journalist.

Journalists don’t normally stutter. They talk in a refined manner, the kind that makes people listen, even when they’re in the middle of flicking from one channel to another.

But then they don’t generally come from Tennessee either.

“I went to England once,” Jason confesses.

“Yeah?”

“And went on a tour of one of the castles.” Jason’s voice is almost embarrassed.

“Bet that was nice.”

Jason nods. “Apparently they used to warm up bricks and put them in people’s beds.”

“Oh.” Then I smile. “So you’re saying we’ll be doing things the old-fashioned way?”

“Oh, no,” Jason says. “We’re going to be doing things like royalty.”

I laugh, and I wish the warmth that swirls through my cells would have some actual effect on my body temperature.

My teeth chatter, and Jason’s laughter dies. I inhale, as if all I need is fresh air, and not actual heat.

Then Jason pulls me against his chest. “You know, body heat is also an old-fashioned way to stay warm.”

“And royal?” I say, because I so want to keep this conversation light and not dwell on the fact Jason’s chest is pressed against mine, that his thighs are pressed against mine, that his ankles are pressed against mine, because it seems Jason doesn’t care that I’m gay. He wants me to be warm.

“No,” Jason says solemnly, and my cheerful mood dissipates, because I wanted Jason to keep the playfulness. “I think royals were often cold. They had to sleep in beds all by themselves.”

“That sounds lonely.”

Jason’s hands tangle in my hair. “We’re not lonely.”

“No.” My voice wobbles, and my heart does this wild beating thing, as if the process of receiving blood and sending it through my body, a process it’s done my whole life, is suddenly difficult and impossible when faced with the distraction of Jason’s fingers.

In Boston, I spend money on overpriced networking. Not haircuts. But Jason’s fingers still cup my head as if there’s something precious there. “Maybe...”

“Maybe?” My voice is rough.

Does he think I expect a kiss? God, I hope not. He’s probably checking me for lice or something. Maybe he saw a bug and didn’t want to freak me out, so he’s... fumbling in my hair instead?

“I have a way for us to be even after the kiss,” he says.