Page 52 of Play With Me

“I’m just impressed you didn’t drool last night.” Despite myself, a bubble of laughter rises in my throat.

He narrows his eyes. “You’re thinking about the tie-dye, aren’t you?”

I lean back in my seat, choking on laughter now.

A couple of summers ago, we’d taken a trip with Cap to a local artisan’s market. He’d become obsessed with this handcrafted tie-dyed bedding and had ignored the seller’s strict instructions to wash them first as we walked away from the booth.

“Why would I wash brand new sheets?” he’d scoffed.

I’d picked him up for brunch the next morning, and when he’d answered the door, clearly fresh out of bed and yawning, I’d had to bite my fist to keep from bursting out laughing.

“What?”

“Jude, your face.”

Jude had frowned, then turned to look in the hallway mirror. His whole cheek was stained blue. Apparently, the pillowcases weren’t colorfast, and he’d done a bit—a lot—of drooling. “‘Why should I wash brand new sheets?’” I’d said while dying from laughter.

I’m crying now I’m laughing so hard at the memory.

“Hey, I’ve seenyousleeping,” Jude said. “Macaroni girl.”

I sit up, wiping my tears away and going serious. “You wouldn’t,” I warn.

“Ohyes.” His voice is a sexy moan.

I shrink down into my seat. “Oh my God.”

I didn’t usually fall asleep away from home—I’d conditioned myself not to, thanks to my sleepwalking tendencies. Where Jude told me once his dreams were not only vivid, but lucid—sometimes he could control his dreams—I was at the opposite end of the spectrum. Not only did I not know I was dreaming, sometimes I’d sleepwalk. And sleep-do other things. But one night I’d fallen asleep next to him anyway, when we’d stayed up too late while having a Ron Howard marathon. Apparently, he’d only noticed I was asleep when I started moaning and writhing next to him. Intensely.

I’d woken up to Jude leaning over and shaking me. “Nor,” he’d said, his face screwed up in laughter. “You can’t have sex dreams in my living room!”

“Sex dreams!” I’d sputtered, still half asleep.

“Yeah! As much fun as it is to watch, you’ll wake up Cap, and it’d be a weird thing to explain.” I’d peered down at Cap’s door down the hall, which, thank all that was holy, looked closed tight. “It wasn’t a sex dream,” I insisted, still foggy. “I was eating macaroni! It was so good!”

I glare at Jude now, even while trying not to laugh.

“Oh God, yes,” Jude moans. “Give it to me, more!”

He isn’t loud enough to turn more than the closest heads, but they’re the same heads that turned before. “Stop!” I squeal, feeling like I might disintegrate from embarrassment.

“With ketchup!”

I clap a hand over his mouth next. “You do need a handler!”

Then I realize I’m on my knees, my hands on his mouth and my chest pressed up against his shoulder.

Jude seems to realize it at the same time, and for a moment, neither of us moves.

The doors behind us whoosh open in a hiss of pressurized air, and the clinking sounds of the meal car follow. I quickly pull away.

Jude grins. “Well, that was fun. But I could use a drink after that!”

What the hell just happened? Something shifted between us last night at the party. Even though we slipped back into our usual nonsense, I can still feel it. It’s like everything is amplified. “Can you get me some water, please?” I squeak. “I’m going to go to the bathroom.”

“Water? You sure? You’re on vacation.”

I hesitate only for a moment. Maybe a little alcohol would calm my nerves. Two days of drinking in a row isn’t the norm for me. My headache only disappeared a couple of hours ago. Still, I find myself nodding. “One drink. Your choice.”

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