Page 26 of Ice Ice Maybe
My brain scrambled for a plausible explanation. “Are you saying you don’t like the show?”
“I do, but?—”
“Great!” I said. “It’s something for you to sleep in.”
She narrowed her eyes playfully. “Is this some kind of test? Are you trying to see if I’ll actually wear this fashion faux pas to bed?”
“Homer would be dejected if he heard you say that.” I pointed to the T-shirt, aiming for nonchalance but probably landing closer to a nervous twitch. “So, you won’t wear it?”
Zena held the T-shirt at arm’s length as if examining a curious artifact from another century. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t wear it, but I’m wondering if I should be concerned that you want to see me in this. Tell me the real reason.”
There was no way I was going to tell her I was terrified that she would wear some silky, lacy lingerie to bed that would make me lose my mind. TheSimpsonsT-shirt was my last line of defense, a cartoon chastity belt, if you will. I mean, who could look sexy with Homer’s doughnut-loving mug stretched across their chest? It was foolproof, but I still needed to convince her to wear it.
“It’s just a shirt,” I said, my voice climbing an octave. “A funny, totally normal, not-at-all-weird shirt to sleep in.”
“Uh-huh,” Zena nodded slowly, a smirk playing on her lips. “And what if I told you I already have something to sleep in?”
Images of Zena in alluring sleepwear flashed through my head, and I quickly squashed them before I said something stupid.
I shrugged, trying to play it cool. “Are you saying you won’t sleep in it?’
She shrugged. “Well, if you really want me to.”
“Great!” I said, perhaps a bit too enthusiastically.
Zena gave me an odd look. “You’re acting weird.”
“What? No, I’m not. I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I denied, knowing full well I was babbling like an idiot. I gestured to our suitcases for a distraction. “We should probably unpack before we head out. I’m not a fan of wrinkles.”
Zena raised an eyebrow. “Slightly OCD, are we?”
“Maybe,” I said. “Let’s just say I like my clothes smooth, like the ice at the San Diego Arena, and leave it at that.”
We shared another laugh, then divided the drawers and closet space for unpacking, Zena taking eighty percent of it, and me the other twenty. The room suddenly felt much smaller, bumping elbows and practically dancing around each other as we unpacked. I reached behind Zena to hang a shirt, catching a whiff of her perfume as my arm grazed her shoulder.
“Sorry,” I mumbled, backing away.
“No problem,” she replied, sidestepping to make room. As she did, her hip brushed against mine, sending an unexpected jolt through me.
We continued our unpacking tango, our hands occasionally brushing as we reached for our drawers. Each brief touch felt charged, like the chemistry was growing between us. Finally, I was putting away my socks and underwear when Zena tried to squeeze past me to reach her drawer. This time, in the narrow space between the bed and the dresser, she bumped into me and lost her balance, teetering precariously.
Without thinking, I reached out to steady her, my hands grasping her waist. She instinctively grabbed my arms, and suddenly we were pressed against each other, our faces inches apart, our expressions frozen.
Zena blinked a few times, then cleared her throat to break the spell. “Um, thank you.”
“No problem,” I replied, slowly releasing my grip on her waist.
“Maybe we should head out now,” she suggested, a slight flush coloring her cheeks.
I nodded, grateful for the suggestion. “Sounds like a plan.”
“Whoops—hang on,” Zena said with amusement as she bent down. “You dropped something.”
I glanced down to see her holding a pair of my black boxer briefs.
“Thanks,” I said, snatching it from her and stuffing it into the drawer. “You did not see that.”
“No—I did not,” Zena said. “Now, let’s go see what kind of trouble we can find outside.”
