The Hating Game

I’m there again. The night I swallowed my goddamn pride and went to his apartment. My own personal happy place in my mind. I’m curled on his couch, the soft deep cushions cradling my back. I feel the dipping weight of him sitting down beside me, and I know as long as he’s there, I will be okay. I don’t know how long we do this. I sit here holding hands with the most intensely fascinating man I’ve ever known. He’s looking at me with fierce tenderness in his eyes. Eyes like he loves me.

Now I know I must be dreaming.

I WAKE WHEN the sun slices through the center of my pillow through a gap in the hotel drapes. My first thought is, No. I’m too comfortable.

My second thought is: I finally get to see Josh asleep.

Lying face-to-face with our pillows touching, we’ve been playing the Staring Game all night with our eyes closed. Each eyelash curves against his cheek, glossed and dark. I’d kill for lashes like those, but they always seem to be lavished upon the most masculine of men. He’s hugging my arm like a teddy bear. I don’t hate him. Not even a bit. It’s a disaster that I don’t. I smooth my fingers over his brow and he frowns. I press away the crease.

I prop up onto my elbow and see the bedside clock reads 12:42 P.M. I have to check several times. How did we sleep past noon? Our mutual exhaustion from the last few days has resulted in a pretty impressive sleep-in.

“Josh.” No point sticking with the formality of his full name when we’re asleep in the same bed. “What time’s the wedding?”

He jolts and opens his eyes. “Hi.”

“Hi. What time’s the wedding?” I try to slither out of bed but he hugs my arm tighter.

“Two P.M. But we have to get there earlier.”

“It’s getting close to one. In the afternoon.”

He’s a little shocked. “I haven’t slept this late since high school. We’re going to be late.” Regardless of this, he nudges my elbow like the kickstand of a bike and I flop back down onto the mattress. I manage to glimpse some bare arm. He’s wearing a black tank.

“Nice arms.”

I slide my hands down one, watching them undulate along each taut, defined curve. Then I do it again. He watches, and the next time I use my fingernails. Goose bumps. Mmmm. I bend my head to kiss them.

“You are something else, Joshua Templeman.” I push his hair away from his forehead. It’s ruffled and messy. I spend a few minutes grooming him.

“Am I trying too hard to seduce you?”

He rolls me closer. I never imagined Josh would be a cuddler. “Well, you could always try harder.”

He’s so sweet. Lying in bed with him is pretty luscious. Without thinking I ask something I’ve always wanted to know. “When was your last girlfriend?”

The question clangs like I’ve struck a gong. Well done, Lucy. Bring up other women while lying in bed with him.

“Um.” There’s a long pause. So long I think he’s either asleep or about to explain he was married. He’s too young. Surely. He tries again. “Well. Um.”

“Don’t tell me you’re waiting for your divorce to come through or something.”

His arm slides up the middle of my back, and my head rolls slowly onto his shoulder. I can barely keep my eyes open, I’m so comfortable. So warm. Surrounded by his scent, and cotton sheets.

“No one would be masochistic enough to marry me.”

I’m a little indignant for him. “Someone would. You’re completely gorgeous. And you’re neat. Tall and muscly. And employed. And have a nice car. And perfect teeth. You’re basically the opposite of most guys I’ve dated.”

“So they’ve all been . . . hideous messy trolls . . . unemployed . . . and smaller than you? How could that even be possible?”

“You’ve been reading my diary. The last guy I dated was so small he could wear my jeans.”

“But he must have been nice. To be my opposite, he must have been so darn nice.” He looks at the wall.

“He was, I guess. But you can be nice. You’re being nice right now.”

I feel teeth on my collarbone, and I snort with amusement.

“Okay, you’re never nice.” The teeth are gone and a soft kiss is pressed against the same spot.