Eight
Miriam emerged from the bathroom after her shower, hair dry since she’d washed it yesterday, her striped pajama pants paired with a Montana State University sweatshirt over a T-shirt. She opted for no bra after a bit of hesitation, but who was she kidding? It wasn’t as if corralling “the girls” into a brassiere was necessary—not for her.
In stockinged feet, she shuffled out of the bedroom she’d chosen, pleased with her pick. It boasted a queen bed and was large enough for a stuffed chair by the window. A flat-screen television was mounted over the dresser, and had a private bathroom attached. It was as close to a hotel suite as she could come.
She’d climbed under the covers and flipped through TV channels, but nothing kept her mind from wandering beyond her borrowed bedroom door. She was wide awake and hyperaware that there was a man on the other side of the house.
She assumed Chase was still awake. He’d been a night owl like her that summer, but many things had changed since then. Maybe he was no longer nocturnal.
She decided to find out.
She found him sitting on the corner of the sofa, legs crossed at the ankles, frowning down at his phone. He was still dressed in a sweater and jeans, the jaunty design of his socks causing her to smile. Not so buttoned-up after all. The way he was lounging in front of a fire he’d built made him appear welcoming. Comfortable.
Maybe that’s why she plucked her half-full wineglass from the island and sat on the love seat across from him.
He looked up when she sat, but she kept her eyes on the fire, feeling not the least bit sleepy.
“Get settled?” he asked after a prolonged beat where neither of them spoke.
“Yes. Thank you.”
He rested his elbows on his knees and tossed the phone onto a wood-and-metal coffee table that was both modern and rustic.
“Do you stay up late every night or only during snowed-in vacations?” she asked.
“Are you questioning my nocturnal habits?” He let the question hang and she fought the urge to think about sex. Specifically, sex with him.
“I have no right to judge what you do at night,” she said. Or who you do. There was an unpleasant thought—Chase sharing a bed with another woman. Not that she had any claim over him, but the thought was still unsavory.
“Yes, whatever you do, don’t question my sleepless nights filled with reading biographies or complicated state plans.” His lips quirked at one corner, an even split of confidence and self-deprecation. “How about you? You don’t appear to miss much beauty sleep.”
“I’m not much for early to bed, early to rise,” she said, refusing to acknowledge his sideways compliment.
“I’m already healthy, wealthy and wise,” he quipped, finishing the saying she’d started. “Why mess with perfection?”
“Oh, so you’re perfect now.”
“My methods. Not me.”
And humble, she thought, keeping her smile hidden. With a subtle shake of her head, she sipped her wine.
“What room did you choose?”
“The smaller one near the kitchen. With the en suite.”
“The one with the stone shower?”
“That’s the one.” Stone walls and a glass partition separated the shower from the rest of the bathroom. No rods or shower curtain rings—just a big open square with a rainfall-style shower overhead. Bliss.
“I showered in there the day I got here.”
The idea of sharing a shower with him—well not sharing, but kinda—was a distracting thought. She drank a little more wine.
“Seemed a waste to only use the shower upstairs.”
“Your room’s the largest I take it?” she happily changed the subject.
“It’s the largest. Has its own sitting area. Overlooks the trees, the lake. There’s a fireplace in the corner. I’ll show it to you later.”