Public Relations

Chapter Thirty Two

"It is high in sodium," he mutters, grimacing as if he suddenly remembers, then abandons the McFlurry. I roll my lips against a smile.

"Do you, um..." I start after a moment, my eyes drifting to the empty Chicken McNuggets carton in front of me. I push it aside, trying to find the words to say, I want to make out with you. Maybe more. But you're acting weird. "Do you—"

"I should probably grab fresh sheets for the guest bed," he says abruptly, standing so quickly that his chair scrapes against the floor, making me startle. "Haven't changed them since Lucy and Clara stayed over."

"Oh, um, okay," I say, though it sounds more like a question than a response. I watch him round the corner, disappearing down the hall, leaving me alone in the quiet kitchen.

I glance around, even more confused than I was a second ago, as I listen to August in the hallway. The linen closet creaks open—there's a string of curses as something spills onto the floor, followed by the muffled rustle of sheets and towels.

The cool hardwood meets my bare feet as I slip off my chair and quietly pad down the hall toward August.

"I can help you make the bed," I offer, even though the last thing I want is to sleep in this guest bed. We've shared a bed at the last two hotels—New York, then LA. So, I just assumed he'd want me in his bed.

I guess I assumed wrong.

"It's fine," he says, wrestling with what looks like Christmas-themed sheets, ones dotted with rows of marching nutcrackers. "I can do it."

I follow him into the guest bedroom as he shakes out the sheets. He's still in his clothes from dinner—the cream knit polo I gave him for his birthday two years ago, the pants that hug his ass so perfectly I've had to actively fight the urge to stare every time he turns around, and his hair—God, that perfect mess of waves.

I groan internally, my eyes flicking to the stairs at the end of the hall that lead up to his bedroom, then back to him as he continues to fight with the fitted sheet. I rest the side of my head against the doorway, watching as he manages to tuck one corner, only for the first side to pop loose when he moves to the opposite end. With a jaw set, he starts over.

I blow out a breath. "August."

"I can bring you something to sleep in if you need." He pauses, raking a hand roughly through his hair again—it's now in absolute disarray from how many times he's run his hand through it tonight. "I don't think I have any pajamas with geese-wrangling cowboys, but you can borrow my I Closed My Book to Be Here shirt. I know you like that one."

"Can't we just..." I begin, swallowing as he bends at the waist, stuffing a pillow into its case. "I mean, can't I just sleep in your bed?"

The words tumble out before I can stop them, and I immediately feel like an idiot. He hasn't made a single move since we left my dad's. He's setting up the guest bed for me, even offering me something to sleep in. Clearly, he doesn't want that. And here I am, practically begging for him to let me sleep with him in his bed.

I peek up at him through my lashes, adding, "We shared a bed at the last two hotels."

He pauses, straightening as he drags another hand through his hair before bracing them on his hips. When he turns, his eyes settle on me, and my stomach twists with a sharp ache that sinks all the way down to my toes. My eyes fall to his socked feet, bracing myself for him to say no—that it's a bad idea.

And that, I think, is what actually might break me tonight.

He takes two quiet steps closer until I see his feet right in front of me. When I chance another glance at him, I catch the warmth in his eyes—a deep, endless brown, softened by the amber glow of the lamp he turned on when he walked in.