My wife and I.

I gape at him, too stunned to pull my hand away as he drags me back toward the suite.

The second the door shuts behind us, I yank free. “Are you insane?”

He shrugs. “Worked, didn’t it?”

I narrow my eyes. “Does this mean you’re taking the couch?”

Jonathan sighs. “Emma, we’re both exhausted. Can we not do this tonight? My head is killing me, and I can’t bear the sound of your voice right now.”

I gasp. “Oh? Is my voice that unbearable? Does it make your ears bleed? Should I talk more just to increase your suffering?”

“That’s not what I meant,” he groans. “Actually…” He exhales. “I like your voice. I probably like it too much. Sometimes, I even make you mad on purpose just to hear you ramble.”

I freeze.

What?

Jonathan blinks.

We both realize what he just admitted.

And then he starts taking his shirt off.

I screech. “Whyare you stripping in front of me?”

He looks genuinely confused. “I can’t sleep with a shirt on.”

I slap my hands over my face.

Jonathan laughs.

“And if I said the same? What if I wanted to sleep bare-chested?” I huff. “If you get to be naked, so do I.”

Silence.

Then…

“I don’t mind,” he says, amused. “Go ahead.”

My face ignites. He didnotjust say that.

“You said…y-you…I…” I sputter, mortified.

Jonathan chuckles. “Open your eyes, Emma. There’s nothing to see here.”

I crack one eye open.

He lied.

There’s plenty to see.

His body is lean, toned, annoyingly perfect. For a split second—just one—I wonder what it would feel like to rest against him, to trace those muscles—

Nope. Nope. Nope.

Shut it down, Emma. Immediately.