Secrets We Whisper in the Moonlight (Decisions in Durham Book 2) Page 7

  He made a sound in the back of his throat. “The Witcher is not sex-driven.”

  Despite the weirdness between the start of the evening and now, I had to press my lips together to suppress a smile. “Then why did Yennifer get the glow up, Jonah? Why do they have Henry Cavill strutting around shirtless everywhere? Sex, baby. Let’s talk about it.” I cleared my throat. “Not that I’m complaining.”

  He stabbed another bite of food while I pulled up the right streaming app and hunted for his favorite non-survivor show. “There are elements of sex,” he clarified. “But the show is story-driven. Those character arcs, I mean . . . it’s genius.”

  “The show’s story walks in drunken circles. The only thing making sense in that show is sex.” I shot him another look. “Kind of like your life.”

  His lips twitched. “Now she’s got sex jokes.”

  I laughed out loud, dispelling whatever tension was left between us. “Oh, I always got jokes about you, Mason. Always.”

  He grabbed the remote from me and turned the volume way up. “Yeah, yeah. If you want to talk about sexual harassment. I’m fairly confident this is the definition.”

  I finally tried my food—which was rich, flavorful, and ridiculously delicious—but didn’t push him on the sore subject anymore. It took fifteen minutes into the episode before we were totally back to normal. He kept pausing to explain what was going on since I hadn’t grown up playing the video game or reading the book as he had, and we fell back into that safe, cozy spot where we spent most of our time as friends.

  Well, for at least the next three episodes.

  six

  I dozed off somewhere during episode three, just when Jonah was as obsessed with something as humanly possible. The food had been so good. And so filling. And I was curled up on my cozy couch under my comfiest blanket. I was on drink number three as well.

  For someone whose job generally consisted of only nightlife, I was notoriously terrible at staying up past ten.

  I woke up cradled in something more solid than my couch. The TV had the “are you still watching” popup on display, and my apartment was still but not as quiet as it usually was in the middle of the night.

  It took me a couple minutes to figure out it was because of Jonah’s heavy sleep-breathing in my ear. We’d somehow tangled together. We’d been sitting next to each other, but with at least a foot of separation. We’d tipped toward each other in our passed-out-ness. So he was somehow resting his head on the back of the couch and cradling me against his chest with our feet pointing in opposite directions. My cheek rested against his chest. His rhythmic breathing steadily rose and fell.

  In another life, I would have gently scooted away from him and tried not to wake him or just closed my eyes and gone back to sleep. Honestly, he made a great pillow. And he was so warm. I slept cold. Which meant I usually woke up ten times during the night to add blankets and socks to my frozen appendages. But right now, I felt perfectly warm. Not too toasty. Not chilled at all. Just luxuriously snug from my head to my toes.

  But this wasn’t a different life. This was my life. And I was bound and determined to make it the most awkward series of catastrophes possible when it came to Jonah. Also, I had drool pooling in the corner of my mouth, and I was fairly certain I’d left a splotch of wet on his T-shirt.

  Which unfortunately meant that I was going to have to assume a new identity and move to Mexico. Those were the accidental drool rules. I didn’t make them.

  I jumped up, taking the blanket with me and wrapping it around my shoulders like I was somehow dressed indecently. He startled awake. Full-on shot straight up and put his hands out like he was under attack.

  “I’m so sorry,” I gasped, watching him shake off sleep and blink awake. “I must have fallen asleep.”

  “Huh?”

  Holding the blankets in a knot with one hand, I grabbed our plates and marched toward the kitchen. I was the one who had just gotten all over his case for being overly flirty with me. And then I literally threw myself on top of him.

  Ugh.

  It wasn’t that I was surprised we’d cuddled up unconsciously. Honestly, it wasn’t the first time. Nor would it probably be the last. But lately . . . lately, I was struggling more and more to turn down his casual plays for something physical. Not that it happened often. But tonight, for instance, that almost kiss. And now this, curled against his body like we were the last people on earth and needed each other’s body heat to survive the elements.

  Normal, clear-headed Eliza could slot that incident into the friend zone easily. Lonely, heartsick Eliza watching her brother fall madly in love with his soul mate and wishing it was her wanted to throw the friend zone to the birds and just get laid, dammit.

  Jonah was dangerous tonight. And even though I knew it wasn’t entirely his fault, I still wanted to blame him rather than take responsibility for my libido.

  My blanket billowed out behind me like a royal robe. I heard it sweep the old magazines off the coffee table, but I would deal with them later.

  “What time is it?” he mumbled from his spot on the couch. His voice was rough with sleep. He must have been deep in REM because I had never seen him this out of it before. Drowsy, of course. Too tired to keep his eyes open all the time. Just woken up, basically my entire childhood since he regularly slept over at our house.

  But not so completely out of it that he was struggling to make sense. I couldn’t help the amused smile that lifted the corners of my mouth. But I did quickly smother it. So I should get some bonus points for that.

  Glancing at my oven, I yelled back, “One thirty.”

  It wasn’t even that late. Not for us anyway. The bar was still open—which seemed crazy given how deep in sleep I’d been too.

  A grunting sound from the living room was followed by a suspicious silence. I assumed he was getting ready to leave while I rinsed the plates and set them in the bottom of the sink. The clean freak in me whispered that I’d be happier in the morning if I loaded them in the dishwasher right now. But honestly, that was Tomorrow Eliza’s problem. Late-Night Eliza just wanted to go back to bed.

  Okay, fine. I did wipe down the counters and box up the leftovers. My refrigerator was embarrassingly empty, and I easily fit the to-go containers between the half gallon of orange juice and corked white wine from two weeks ago when Claire and I had decided we were going to find a Zinfandel we liked.

  We’d failed.

  Although we managed to drink almost everything. Except for that half bottle. Which I should probably throw away.

  By the time I had turned off the kitchen lights and wandered back toward the living room, I fully expected Jonah to have left. But there he was, tipped over on his side, sleeping again.

  I sat down on the coffee table and put my socked feet up on the couch in front of his chest. “Psst.” He didn’t even flinch. “Jonah!” I whisper-yelled. He swatted a hand in front of his face and squished his eyes tightly closed. When he put his hand down, it landed on the top of my feet. He didn’t try to move it away. I wiggled my toes. Still no response. Leaning forward, I got closer to his face. “Jonah, don’t you want to go home and sleep in your own comfy bed?”

  He shook his head. “No, thank you.”

  “You can’t sleep here,” I said more firmly. “You need to go home.”

  “You go home,” he growled drowsily. “I’m tired.”

  He was too cute like this. All curled up and grumpy. His face was so soft in sleep, so relaxed with his long, muscly body stretched out. I could see goose bumps on his arms. But apparently, he wasn’t concerned about being warm. Or sleeping in a bed. I poked his chest with my big toe. He just held it tighter in his sleepy grip.

  I sighed in defeat. And then yawned. I was tired too. Too tired to deal with him right now.

  Leaving him exactly as he was, I dropped my cozy, plush blanket on top of him so he wouldn’t freeze. Then I sprinted to my bedroom, where I closed the door and ripped off my work clothes and bra, only to replace them with some sweatpants and a tank. Then I faceplanted on my bed and burrowed beneath my covers.

  Tomorrow Eliza would have to deal with Jonah too. Or maybe Tomorrow Jonah would wake up, realize he wasn’t where he was supposed to be, and drag his big butt back home.

  I fell asleep with him still wrapped around me. His scent. His touch. His warmth. And I thought, Tomorrow Eliza will be better at shaking him off. Tomorrow Eliza will remember that he didn’t give her butterflies. Or make her heart squeeze painfully. Or remind her of when she used words like “future” and “love” and “soul mate” whenever she thought of him.

  The sun would come up, and sense would return to Tomorrow Eliza and Tomorrow Jonah. And life would click back into normal mode, just like all the times before. Easy peasy. Because no matter how many times he tells me I’m sexy, I’ll never be a woman in his eyes.

  A chainsaw woke me up the following morning. I flopped over in bed and pressed my hands to my chest to keep my heart from leaping out of my body.

  With a few seconds of wakefulness, I realized it wasn’t a chainsaw. It was my coffee grinder. And with that sense of clarity came a lot more confusion. Had I programmed it last night? I’d only remembered to program it the night before twice. So . . . doubtful. It took effort to clean out all the pieces and set them up for the morning. I was always too tired at night and promised myself I’d do a better job in the morning. Only to curse myself every morning because who wanted to clean the individual pieces of a high-tech coffee maker first thing in the morning?

  If it was programmed, I definitely hadn’t added coffee to it. So was it going to brew yesterday’s coffee? Was that somehow going to eff up my stupidly expensive machine?

  Now in a full-fledged panic, I threw the blankets off me
and grabbed a throw from the end of my bed—because why was the morning always so damn cold?—then ran into the kitchen, planning to tackle my coffee machine—which had clearly come alive in a machine-versus-humanity-type scenario—and wrestle it unplugged.

  I skidded to a stop as soon as the kitchen came into view and screamed something unintelligible and wildly profane. My coffee machine wasn’t possessed. A man was in my kitchen tending to it. A man I had forgotten fell asleep on my couch last night. A man I was not expecting to see until after my workout, shower, hair and makeup was done, and several hours of daylight.

  He spun around and did a double take. “Morning,” he said, eyes bulging with shock. “Hope this was okay. I didn’t think I was safe to drive home without some caffeine.”

  “You scared the living shit out of me, Jonah! I forgot you were here. I thought my coffee machine was alive!” And why was I yelling? It was way too early for yelling.

  He cleared his throat and had the good sense to look embarrassed. “Yeah, uh, sorry, I had no idea it was going to be that loud. This thing is like industrial-strength.”

  I sniffed, unsure if he was insulting me or not. “Coffee is very important to me.”

  His lips twitched, but he remained serious. “To me as well.” After an awkward pause, he repeated, “I hope you don’t mind. I looked up the instructions online . . .”

  “You can google coffee machine instructions, but you can’t drive yourself home?”

  His embarrassed expression intensified. I was pretty sure his cheeks turned red. “Okay, the truth is I’m out. And I didn’t want to stop. And this thing looked . . . like it would make something good. Don’t be mad.”

  I rolled my eyes. “It would take a lot more than making me coffee in the morning to get me mad at you.” A shiver rocked through me, and I realized how badly I had to pee. I gestured toward the kitchen. “Go ahead and help yourself to whatever. I think there’s oatmeal in the pantry. I’ll be right back.”

  Safely back in my room, I realized several things at once. One, I wasn’t wearing a bra. I’d had the blanket wrapped around my shoulders, but had it been tightly? Two, my breath was rock-solidly awful. Shouldn’t have skipped brushing last night. Gross. And three . . . I looked like a clown from a circus that performed nightly in hell. Oh, my gosh, I hadn’t taken my makeup off last night. Or put my hair up!

  Well, that explained his look of sheer terror.

  I stumbled to the bathroom and gripped the edge of the sink, gaping at my appearance. My dark hair was absolutely wild, sticking up everywhere, and inhumanly frizzy. And my eyeliner and mascara from yesterday made raccoon circles around my eyes. My unwashed face was oily and so shiny it might be literally reflective. And then there was the breath. Which was somewhere between as bad as possible and worse than humanly possible.

  Thankfully, I was about sixty percent sure Jonah and I had stayed far enough away that I was safe there.

  Okay, forty percent sure.

  Maybe a strong ten percent positive my breath hadn’t infiltrated the entire apartment by now, and he was currently passed out on the kitchen floor dying of asphyxiation.

  Priorities—I peed first. Then made my teeth sparkle. And then got to work on the mess that was my face and hair. Fifteen minutes later, I emerged from the bathroom fresh-faced and with my hair on top of my head in a supersoft satin scrunchie. I’d also slipped a bralette and cardigan on to save Jonah from a peep show he didn’t ask for.

  He dug around in the refrigerator while I lustfully eyed the full pot of coffee.

  “You have nothing to eat here,” he said into the empty expanse of the fridge. “Is that why you’re so skinny?”

  Admittedly, food was not my priority. I loved to eat well. And I loved good food. But I worked too much and was gone even more than that to make cooking and grocery shopping a regular event. I usually had takeout for too many of my meals. But I couldn’t bring myself to eat it more than once a day. Usually once every other day. So I subsisted on instant oatmeal and premade protein shakes.

  Since I lived and worked in a pretty intense foodie culture, I tried to keep these facts about myself hidden. I knew how to order the good stuff at any given restaurant. And I could demand delicious drinks from happy hour to bottle service.

  But secretly, I could hardly take care of myself.

  Jonah already knew that about me. Which was why he was constantly trying to feed me. It was annoying. But also endearing. And without him shoveling delicious food truck potpies at me a couple times a week, I probably would have expired from hunger years ago, hit my head on the corner of my kitchen counter, and then bled out because I was all alone. My brothers wouldn’t have thought to check on me for at least a couple weeks.

  Dark? Yes.

  True? Also, yes.

  But, all that aside, Jonah was still in my apartment a good twelve hours after we picked up takeout last night, and I was starting to get antsy. “Then maybe you should take your coffee to go and rummage through your own fridge.”

  He turned around smiling and let the fridge door close on its own. “There’s no food over there either.”

  “I told you I have oatmeal. And not just any oatmeal. I have all the good flavors. Peach, blueberry, brown sugar and cinnamon, apples and cinnamon, banana . . .”

  He actually flinched when I said banana. He hated bananas more than anything on the planet.

  “Did you want me to make you a bowl?” I only offered because I knew there was no way he’d take me up on it.

  “I’ll starve. Thanks.”

  He’d already set the creamer on the counter, so I got busy making my cup of coffee and pouring one for him. He didn’t drink his with creamer, but he knew I wouldn’t touch the stuff without it. It was thoughtful of him to get it out for me.

  But I was annoyed he was still here. And that he’d seen me in a way that would definitely get back to my brothers, become an instant running joke, and never go away.

  “You were out of it last night,” I said, wondering if he’d explain why he spent the night.

  I wasn’t looking at him, but I sensed a shrug at my back. “Your couch is unfairly comfortable. I didn’t stand a chance.”

  He apparently didn’t remember me lying directly on top of him. So at least there was that. “It really is. I had to lie on like fifty couches before I picked that one.”

  “I remember.”

  “Oh, yeah, I forgot you went with me.”

  “Then you made them upholster it for you with that flowery pattern. The sales guy was so pissed.”

  I snorted before taking a sip of my perfect coffee. “He shouldn’t have been. That thing cost an arm and a leg. I know he got a fantastic commission from it. He was just one of those people who liked to complain. I could tell.”

  “How could you tell?” His question sounded innocent, but I heard the amusement he was trying to hide in his tone.

  “I just could. He also made a comment about maybe I would want a smaller size. And when I told him I wanted it delivered and assembled, he made a snotty noise.”

  “Okay, I remember the smaller size comment. But I think that had to do with finishing it within your time frame. But there wasn’t a snotty noise about delivery. You made that up.”

  I whirled around and planted my butt against the counter. “I heard it. He hated me.”

  He shook his head but finally released a laugh. “You’re delusional. He didn’t hate you. Nobody hates you. You’re too . . . you.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  He held my gaze. “You know what it means.” When I pressed my lips together and shook my head, he added, “I don’t know, you’re . . . so nice. And funny. And . . . gorgeous. And you have that way of making everyone feel like they’re your instant best friend. The poor guy was probably just nervous.”

  It was my turn to roll my eyes—despite the way his compliments made me feel all warm and squishy. “That’s such bullshit. You were there. He had it out for me.”

  He took a long drink of his coffee. “I give up. I can’t win without at least three more cups of this.”

  I nibbled on my lower lip, enjoying this early morning banter. I didn’t usually talk to anyone until I got to the office. Unless I had an errand or went to the gym with Ada or Claire instead of using my own treadmill.