Page 74 of The Fake Date (Brides of Beaufort 4)

But the second I made the first little shove, he woke with a start and jumped forward, slamming his forehead right into mine.

“Ow,” I cried, grabbing my already throbbing head.

“Lyndi, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

I held up my hands and tried to blink the stars from my vision. “It’s fine. It’s my fault. I was trying to fix you without waking you up, but now I see that was a stupid idea.”

“Fixme?”

“Yes, you were about to fall off the couch. Or even if you weren’t, you looked really uncomfortable. I was trying to see if I could get you to… you know, scoot.”

He chuckled. “Ah, yeah. It was the best I could do, given the milkshake disaster.”

“But I thought Layla cleaned up the mess.” I looked toward the towel, seeing no evidence of chocolate milkshake.

“Yeah, she did. But she used a ton of water. It’s still wet.”

I patted the towel then pulled my hand back and wiped it on my pajama pants. Then I winced. “Ew. I’m really sorry, Beau. We should have called to confirm we had enough beds once you decided to come.”

“Lyn, I’m a Marine. This is no biggie to me. I’ve slept in a lot worse places than this. Including a muddy hole while getting eaten alive by mosquitos.”

“Sounds pleasant.”

“Quite.”

I tapped my forehead, sucking in a breath when I felt a lump.

“You okay?” he asked, eyes tracking my movements.

“Yes. But listen, this is ridiculous. We’re adults, and we both know nothing is going to happen between us because neither of us want it to, right?”

He gulped, nodding quickly. “Right.”

“Exactly. So, you can sleep on the other side of the bed. It’s a king. There’s plenty of room for both of us—with a line of pillows between us.”

He chuckled, but then he shook his head and reclined back onto the couch again. “No, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Lowering his head to the table pillow again, he winced like the motion hurt his neck.

I rolled my eyes and tugged on his heavy arm. “Come on. I’m not taking no for an answer. But you need to put on a shirt. And I get the side away from the door.”

“Anything else?” he asked as I pulled him along.

“Yep. Door stays open and you stay above the comforter. I think that about covers it.”

I’d turned toward the bed, but he reached out and grabbed my arm, forcing me to look up at him in the dark room. His eyes bored into mine, searching for any hint that I was doing that thing where I pretended to be comfortable with something when I wasn’t.

“Are you sure?” he asked in a gravelly tone, so quiet I could barely hear him.

“Yes. Don’t make a big deal out of it and it won’t be.”

He dropped my arm. “Okay.”

He went to the closet and pulled down a spare blanket while I arranged two of the extra-long king pillows in a line down the center of the bed. Then I climbed in, pointing at his chest. “Ah-ah. Shirt.”

“Right, sorry.” He left, and I heard the bathroom door close with a quiet snap.

Why did he need to go in there to put on a shirt?