Page 56 of A Storybook Wedding

Rude.

But he also asked me if he could read my manuscript, just to give it another set of eyes before full requests began rolling in. I liked his optimism, so I sent him the PDF, and he said he wanted to spend some time with that as well.

As a result, by the time we get back to our room, it’s after 9:00 p.m., and we’re both pretty beat.

Nate unlocks the door, letting us inside. He offers me the bathroom first. I grab my pajamas and my towel from home out of my suitcase and head in there, locking the door behind me. I’ve got my toiletries lined up neatly on the shelf above the sink, and Nate’s are beside them. While I change out of my clothes, I scan the shelf, reading the labels of his things. Each one is more than just a product; it’s a decision he’s made. Old Spice deodorant, Cetaphil face wash, an electric Norelco razor, a nonelectric Gillette razor, Aveeno shaving gel, Nivea for Men aftershave, a bottle of cologne called Byredo Bibliothèque, a strawberry ChapStick, a blue Oral-B toothbrush, and a tube of Arm & Hammer Extreme White toothpaste are neatly lined up on the right half of the single shelf. I lift the cologne from its spot and carefully open it, then bring it to my nose and inhale. He would have a cologne that references books in the name.

Mmm. It’s just a part of the entire cocktail of products that make up his scent, but I can definitely appreciate it.

Stop being a creeper, Cecily, I admonish myself.

I debate whether or not to leave on my bra. I would typically never sleep in a bra at home, but I’m not home, and I’m not sleeping alone. I vacillate over this detail while I turn on the faucet and let the water heat up.

I wash my face with my CeraVe, brush my teeth with my purple Colgate toothbrush and my Crest whitening toothpaste, then slather on hyaluronic acid serum followed by night moisturizer. I line my lips with balm, dab some eye cream where my puffy bags are, dry my hands on my towel, and take my bra off (because fuck it, I’m allowed to be comfortable), wondering if Nate finds my bathroom products as curious as I find his.

When I step back into the bedroom, he looks up from his laptop at me. “Those are your pajamas?” he asks.

I look down. I’m wearing flannel pants with penguins on them that my mom gave me for Christmas, with a red tank top to match. “What’s wrong with them?”

He shakes his head. “I can’t with you.”

What the hell is that supposed to mean? “I don’t get it. Do my penguins offend you?”

“Not at all,” he says, grinning. “Not even a little bit. You all set in there?” He nods at the bathroom.

“Uh-huh,” I reply, tucking my dirty clothes into a kitchen-size garbage bag.

He excuses himself to wash up, and I notice he took down the extra blanket from the closet for me. I unfold it over the bed, then peel the covers back and hop in on my side. I snuggle up under them and grab the Jeff Herman book off the nightstand. I continue thumbing through it until Nate returns.

In nothing but his boxer shorts.

Oh. My. God.

The man is a fucking specimen, to say the least. His chest is broad, his abs defined; he’s got a thin layer of that same light-brown, hot cocoa–colored hair that I first noticed in his beard (if you can call it that) the day we met—that—on his chest and then leading down from his belly button to south of the underwear border. He’s got a few errant drops of water on his chest from having just washed his face, and it’s all I’ve got in me not to lick them off him.

“You forget to put on shorts or something?” I say.

“What?” he asks innocently as if he can’t possibly fathom what I could be talking about.

“Nate! You can’t sleep here in your underwear!”

“Why not? This is how I sleep.”

“No. This is you trying to fuck with me!”

“Fuck with you how?”

I stare at him, crossing my arms just under my chest.

“If it makes you that uncomfortable, I’ll put on shorts.”

I exhale. “Thank you. Please do.”

“But I’m going to have to ask you to put on a bra.”

“Wait, what? Why?”

“Because. I can see all of that.” He waves at my boobs.

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