“In the downstairs supply room the employees use. This is overflow, I think. Actually, I’m not really sure. I just know he keeps this bed in it, and he’s the only one allowed up here. It’s the safest place I could think of. Even though mages do drink at the bar, shifters outnumber them. People don’t mess with Joe very often. Not without good cause.”
“If they find out we’re here, it’ll be a good cause.”
“Which is why we’ll only stay a little while.”
My leg was falling asleep. I tried to shift, but his elbow was in the way, sticking out so he could fold his hands across his chest. “Is there anywhere else you can put your hands?”
He straightened the arm on my side. His fingers brushed my upper thigh and rested much too close to my apex. His point made, he pulled his arm back up.
“Ah.” I ignored the butterflies and maneuvered enough to curl my arm under my head. My elbow knocked his temple. “Oops, sorry.”
He pulled his head away so I could try and figure out my whole arm/pillow situation. Except if I did that, my forearm would smack his face.
“So you thought you’d take the couch, and my mother and I would fit in this bed?” I asked.
A smile spread across his face. “I hadn’t remembered how small the bed was.”
“Clearly.”
“I am a bit large.”
“Yes.”
“And your mother is larger still. In certain…areas.”
I snorted with his attempted delicacy. “At least my mother is squishy. You’re all hard planes and dull points.” I’d need to grab some clothes from my pack and use them as a pillow, since side-sleeping without one would kill my neck. My only hesitation was that I didn’t want my clean clothes to smell like this bed. It was musty and slightly dank. In other words, kind of gross.
At least the room was dry and he was warm. Silver lining.
“Luckily, you are petite,” he mumbled.
With a last-ditch effort, I scooched down and curled my arm under me again. My butt hit the wall, my feet dangled over the end, and I rammed my forehead into Emery’s elbow.
He jerked his arm away. The bed groaned miserably. “Are you okay?”
I would’ve rubbed the offending spot, but I was struggling to keep my face from pressing against the blankets.
“Penny?” I felt his hand curl under my upper arm.
“I’m good. I’m fine.” I inchwormed back up the bed, my progress eased by his tugging. Oh, who was I kidding? I was dragged up, pulling at the blanket as I went. The guy was strong, even in awkward positions.
“I’m not petite,” I said absently as I tried to decide which piece of clothing to sacrifice for my pillow. “I’m a normal-sized woman with a penchant for hunching when I’m embarrassed. Which is often, as you’ve noticed.” I blew out a breath. “The pillow issue is real.”
His big arm came away from the bed until it was sliding across my face.
“Put that back.” I shoved his arm off my forehead. “There isn’t enough room for that thing to go wandering.”
“Come in.”
“Come in where? We’re on top of the covers.”
“Use me for a pillow.”
I hesitated as a worrying hum sounded in my body again. “No, it’s fine. I’ll figure it out.”
“Suit yourself.” He dropped his arm, and his fingers resumed their restless drum on his stomach. I wasn’t sure what he was so wound up about. It was good to be the biggest guy in the room. He’d gotten the prime sleeping spot simply because there was a good chance he might shift in his sleep and literally crush me should he have to lie on his side.
“Was your brother as big as you?” I asked, dropping my head to my arm and letting my forearm rest against his face. “Or are you an unfortunate anomaly?”
Emery pulled his head away, apparently under the impression I was shifting again. My hand covered his mouth. He paused for a second, clearly still waiting, until his lips curved into a smile under my fingers. He shifted back and let my arm be, lying across his face.
I laughed and pulled back, but lost my balance and ended up rolling forward and slamming my face against his upper arm. I arched back like a sea creature caught out of water.
“What…are you doing?” he asked, trying to scoot away. There was nowhere to go.
“That settles it. I need to get some clothes for a pillow. This isn’t going to work.” I let my arm fall across his face again.
“I’m doomed to smell like this bed,” he said. “Are you sure you want to suffer the same fate? You have clean clothes; you should keep them that way until you wear them tomorrow.”
His chest stilled, and a pregnant pause ballooned between us. He wanted me to lean against him.
“Don’t try to kill yourself by asphyxiation on my account,” I said. His breath blew out, riding a chuckle.
I thought over what he’d said. At the moment, I had his spicy-sweet, masculine smell close at hand to disguise the musk of the unwashed and half-forgotten bed. Even though he was a bit dirty and travel-hardened, I delighted in his natural cologne. There was a strangely comforting quality to it. But tomorrow, wearing those soiled clothes, all I’d have was the bed’s musk, accompanied by the memory of mice, dirt, and endless layers of dust.
That wouldn’t be pleasant.
I sighed. “Fine, I’ll use you as a pillow. Though I doubt it will be any more comfortable.”
“Why is that?”
“Why do you think? You’re one big rock.”
“You get used to sleeping on rocks.” That sounded ominous.
I frowned as I scooted closer, ignoring him. Cryptic warnings were another thing I didn’t have time for. The more pressing issue was how I was going to sleep wrapped around a near-stranger.
Better than you would’ve slept curled up beside him.
I ignored myself (my list of things to ignore was drastically increasing) and grabbed his wrist and flung it, expecting him to pick up the slack. Instead, his hand thwapped loosely against my face. “Good gravy, Billie Jean, give me a break over here.”
His silent laughter shook the bed. He lifted his hand and dropped it near my head, only pulling it around me after I sidled closer to his big frame. “Do you think out your put-downs before you say them?”
I wiggled to get comfortable. “That wasn’t a put-down.”
“Calling me Billie Jean, which is a woman’s name in the song, wasn’t a put-down?”
“First of all, being referred to as a woman is a compliment, not a put-down. Women can handle all the banes of existence, including being called the bane of existence, and keep on trucking. Our fragile egos don’t cause war and famine. You should be so lucky to have me call you a woman’s name—”
“There’s the fire.”
“—and second, I wasn’t calling you Billie Jean. It was part of my swear recipe. I used a song. It happens.”
“You have a swear recipe?”
“Yes. Don’t ask me for it. Get your own.”
His silent laughter shook me with the bed this time. I punched his side like I might punch a pillow to fluff it up.
He jerked and laughed harder, moving his arms to protect his (clearly ticklish) side. He squished me between his arm and body while doing so.
“Uncle,” I called out, my face smashed and words muffled. “Uncle!”
His laughter only increased as he slowly pulled his hands away, his middle flexing.
“It isn’t often the aggressor has to say uncle when they are still under attack,” I groused, scooting closer to him again.
He swished the hair away from my face and over my shoulder, sending goosebumps along my skin, before resting his hand on my arm. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. That’s impressive.”
He squeezed my arm. “I’m a little ticklish.”
“Clearly.”
Silence descended, and we lay quietly, though not restfully. The fingers of his free hand were drumming again, beating a pulse against his body. The music below pounded a deep rhythm, reverberating through the walls.
“Thank you,” he said. Each syllable dripped with sincerity.