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Then darkness. Warm and soft and blessedly free of roses.

14

— • —

Sam

The first thing I noticed was that the ceiling wasn’t mine.

Mine had a crack that I’d been meaning to fix since move-in day. This ceiling was pristine white with crown molding that actually met at the corners properly. Professional work.

The second thing I noticed was the smell.

Cedar and soap and a uniquely male scent that made me burrow deeper into the pillow before my brain fully came online. When it did, I shot upright so fast I gave myself vertigo.

Tyson’s room. Tyson’s bed. Tyson’s pillow that I’d just been nuzzling like some kind of creep.

I looked down at myself, relief flooding through me at the sight of yesterday’s jeans and t-shirt. I was fully clothed, thank god. The last thing I remembered was sitting on his couch with that book and Noa and then… nothing.

He’d carried me to his bed? Without waking me up or trying anything or even putting me in the guest room like a normal person would? He just tucked me into his personal space and let me drool on his pillows all night.

My heart did this weird stuttering thing that I absolutely was not going to examine.

The door opened and I yelped, grabbing the nearest weapon which turned out to be a decorative pillow with “Home Sweet Home” embroidered on it. Very threatening.

“Sorry! Sorry!” Tyson stood frozen in the doorway, hands up in surrender. “I was just coming to wake you.”

“Don’t you knock? I could have been naked!”

The words hung between us for approximately three seconds before my brain caught up with my mouth. His eyebrows climbed toward his hairline, and I watched a slow smile spread across his face.

“Why would you be getting naked in my room?” His voice dropped into that rumbly register that should be illegal before coffee.

I opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. All that came out was a strangled sound that might have been words in some alternate universe.

My face burned hot enough to fry eggs. “I just meant… privacy… general principle…”

He chuckled, the sound warming parts of me that had no business responding. “Breakfast is ready. Noa really wants you to stay for it.”

“Noa does?”

His ears turned pink. This six-foot-something contractor with arms that could bench press a truck was blushing.

“Yes. Noa. My daughter. Who is definitely the one who wants you to stay.”

I bit my lip to keep from smiling. He was such a terrible liar.

“Okay,” I whispered.

He cleared his throat. “There’s a new toothbrush in the bathroom. And if you want…” He gestured vaguely at his dresser. “You can borrow whatever. If you want. Or not. Whatever works.”

He fled before I could respond, leaving me alone with the revelation that Tyson Calloway, unflappable handler of my renovation disasters and rose-related meltdowns, turned into a stammering teenager at the suggestion of me changing clothes.

I should have gone straight to the bathroom, used the toothbrush and marched downstairs in yesterday’s shirt like a reasonable person.

Instead, I stood in front of his dresser like an idiot, running my fingers over soft cotton t-shirts that would smell like him. Just borrowing a clean shirt. Nothing weird about that. Friends borrowed clothes all the time.

Were we friends?