“That sounds scary. I’m not sure I even want to imagine how you’d go about getting This Thing off of me.”
Boone rolled up onto his elbow, his expression darkening just enough that the band around my stomach cinched tight again. It was like certain looks of his were hardwired to that invisible band, making it tighten and squeeze at just the right—or generally wrong—moment. Like when he was three feet in front of me, both of us still sprawled out in our respective beds, behind a locked door.
“It wouldn’t be my first time freeing you from a dress, now would it?”
My throat flamed white hot. “So you’re saying you’ve got this because of all your experience in the dress-freeing department?”
“Well, it wouldn’t be from inexperience, that’s for damn sure.” His expression darkened another shade as he sat up, then that smoldering look was instantly replaced by one of pain. Reaching for his lower back, he grumbled as he rubbed it.
“You’re way too young to be complaining of back pain from sleeping on a floor,” I said, feeling like I was about to break a sweat from keeping the unaffected look plastered on my face.
“No, not really. We’re at that awkward, stuck-in-the-middle stage. The ‘too old to be young, but too young to be old’ thing.” He continued to rub his back for another moment before throwing off the sheet and getting up.
“Old enough to know better, but too young to give a damn?” I called as he traipsed toward the bathroom. The way he was moving now, a person would never know he’d spent the last two nights sleeping on a hard floor.
“Something like that.” He closed the door halfway.
Just when I was anticipating hearing the shower blasting to life, I heard the toilet seat lifting, followed by another typical morning ritual.
“Boundaries,” I called, shaking my head. “They’re a good thing.”
“According to who?” he called, still letting it flow. “They seem like more an excuse for keeping people at arm’s length, you know? Just another excuse for keeping your walls up when it comes to others getting to know the real you.”
“An issue you clearly don’t struggle with,” I said right before I heard the toilet flushing and the toilet seat closing. At least he was a barbarian with manners.
“Hey, you get the good with the bad right from the start when it comes to me. I’m not going to wrap myself in gold paper and throw a silver bow on top and pretend my shit doesn’t stink and the only flaw I’m in possession of is my affection for shelter animals.” Boone snorted right before the shower fired on. “No wonder so many marriages wind up in divorce. A person thinks they’re marrying one person only to find out they married someone else entirely. That’s a bunch of crap. The woman who marries me is going to get the same me the day after the wedding as she had on the first date.”
His undershirt and boxers flew out from behind the bathroom door and landed in a couple of heaps in the middle of the floor.
“Lucky lady,” I muttered, rolling out of bed.
“So really though? What have you got going on today?” he hollered from the shower as I crossed the room to collect his dirty clothes. I tossed them in the laundry basket with my dirty clothes from yesterday. “Because I’m not looking forward to another eighteen holes of golf followed by a limo tour of the different distilleries around the city. Sunburned, dehydrated, and drunk—not the way I was hoping to spend my day. Plus spending it with a bunch of ass-clowns in the same condition.”
I barked out a laugh. “Since I got a pass on the whole rehearsal-dress shopping outing thanks to my mom and Charlotte deeming my need to get helped out of The Thing an acceptable excuse, I highly doubt they’ll let me bail on the afternoon of touring the local wineries.” I stopped in front of my vanity to check my reflection, making sure I ignored what the mirror showed me from the neck down. My hair was messy, but after some brushing, it cleaned up enough to meet the passing bar.
I was about to sweep on some blush and a coat or two of mascara when the shower turned off, and I decided to sideline that idea. I didn’t know why, but I didn’t want Boone to see me putting on makeup. I didn’t want him to think I was doing it for him. I didn’t want him thinking, most importantly, about why I wanted to look my best around him.
“A winery tour? A distillery tour?” Boone’s voice echoed in the bathroom. “Your family knows how to drink. I got to hand them that.”
“You’ve spent a good chunk of time around them. It’s a survivalist measure, the only reason we’re all still alive and haven’t been given life sentences for pre-meditated murder.” I folded up Boone’s blankets, sheet, and pillow and carried them into my closet so they wouldn’t seem suspicious to any snoopy—a.k.a. my mom’s—eyes.