I walk across the room and snatch it out of her hand.
“Hey,” she protests. “Gimme that.”
“Afraid not.”
Her forehead furrows. The champagne starts to hit her full force, because she has a hard time focusing on me.
“Marriage rule number one: don’t tell me what I can and cannot do,” she says.
“I thought number one was that you aren’t doing my laundry?” I grin. “Or was it that I’m not supposed to tell you to settle down?”
She fights a smile but gives in. “Fine. Make that rule number two. Or three. I don’t care. Just remember it.”
“I certainly will. But marriage rule number four is that I can’t watch you do something that I think you’ll regret later.”
She spreads her arms wide. “My room. My house. My champagne even, probably. And you’re now my husband. Pretty sure it’s safe.” She reaches for the bottle again.
“You’re right. This is your room and house, and it probably is your champagne. And I am your husband. But I want you to wake up in the morning and remember exactly what happened tonight.”
She grins a lopsided grin. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
It takes every ounce of self-restraint that I have not to lunge forward and kiss the hell out of her—self-restraint I didn’t even know I had. I run a hand down the leg of my pants and try to sneakily adjust myself in the process.
“That means,” I say carefully, willing myself to not give in to the fire rushing through my body, “that you are going to remember that I slept on the floor and you curled up in bed and we went to sleep.”
Her face falls. “Oh.”
I toss her a wink and set the bottle on the floor by my bag.
“You know, I didn’t have you pegged as a party pooper,” she says.
I dig through my stuff and find a pair of sweatpants and a black T-shirt. “Yeah, well, I didn’t peg myself to be the lame one either.”
She gasps. “Are you insinuating that I’m lame?”
I wad the shirt in my hands and stand to face her. “Believe it or not, ‘lame’ is not one of the first fifty words I’d use to describe you.”
She smiles, obviously proud of herself. “I’m glad we’re on the same page, then.”
“Me too.”
A lock of hair falls in her face. She half blows, half spits it out of the way.
I stand and watch her, wondering how someone can be this adorable and this sexy at the same time. It’s mind-blowing. Usually women are one or the other—a sexpot or a little-sister type. Sophie is both.
What do I do with that?
She walks across the room. Her shoe catches on the edge of the rug, and she uses the momentum to propel herself into her closet.
“What are you doing?” I ask with a laugh.
Her head pops around the corner. “I’m going to change for bed. Don’t peek.”
“Only if you don’t peek either.”
“Ha.”
As soon as she’s out of sight, I make quick work of changing my clothes. My eyes stay trained on the closet door.
I need a shower. My body is so tense it aches. Sweat trickles down my back. A bit of privacy would probably do me about five minutes of good—just long enough to take care of business. But I’m not about to hit the shower and leave her with the champagne . . . or give up one of the only nights I’ll have in this close proximity with her.
Even if I am on the floor.
I need to be on the floor. Don’t complicate this, McKenzie.
This all might be temporary, but it is enjoyable. I’ve never experienced something like this. If this is what marriage is, I might not be as averse to it as I thought.
I fold my clothes and set them on top of my bag. Just as I’m turning around, Sophie comes out of her closet. Relief washes over me when I see she’s put on a pair of shorts and a button-up pajama top.
Then she turns around and I see the bottom curve of her ass, and I groan. Thankfully, it’s covered by the sound of dishes in the kitchen.
Sophie’s eyes go wide. “They’re doing dishes? Are they freaking serious?”
“Want me to kick them out?”
“I mean, yeah. It’s . . . weird. What if we were in here . . .” She giggles. “How embarrassing would that be?”
It’s clear the champagne has started to work its magic. She places a hand on the bed as she continues to giggle.
“I don’t know that I would be particularly embarrassed about that,” I say carefully.
A salacious, sexy grin splits her cheeks. “We should make them think we are. Embarrass them.”
I scoff. “Sophie, Liv knows this isn’t real. Dottie probably does, too, by now. They might be shit-stirrers, but they aren’t voyeurs. They’re probably just cleaning up the mess they made.”