Ms. Match

She waited for him to speak again, but there was only the sound of his breathing. Perhaps he’d fallen asleep. Of course he had. It was absurdly late.

Once more, she closed her eyes and once more she moaned. It was cut short by the touch of his hand on her arm. Under the covers.

“I can call down for some Alka-Seltzer,” he said. “There wasn’t any in the care baskets.”

Should she move? No. She should ignore it. Him. “No, that’s okay. The spinning will stop soon.”

“Promise?”

“Wish I could.”

“You know,” he said, “it kind of helps to talk. At least for me. But that’s nuts, so never mind.”

“No, it’s not,” she said as she prayed he’d move his hand. “It does help, I think.”

“Crap.”

“What’s wrong?” She almost turned. Didn’t.

“I forgot to get water. Be back in a sec.”

His hand lifted and she breathed again. As the bed jiggled it occurred to her that drunkenness wasn’t her worst sin of the night. Being ridiculous had that honor. She was behaving like a child. A ninny. Like one of her sisters.

The light from the small fridge made her look. Boxers. Nice ones, though not the kind she’d been hoping for.

“You want one?” he asked.

“I’m good.”

He stood there, bare but for his undies, his head back, water bottle at his lips. He drank greedily, and even in the weird light she could see his Adam’s apple bob.

Okay, so she wasn’t being a complete moron. The guy was outside of her experience. The situation was incredibly intimate. Who wouldn’t feel intimidated?

Paul turned to face her, backlit to perfection. “That made all the difference. Are you sure you don’t want one?”

“I’ve got a bottle right here.” She tried to keep her gaze on his face, but her eyes refused to obey. They swept down his chest to his slim hips and below where they lingered until he closed the minifridge door.

He got back into bed with no hesitation this time. While she was busy worrying about the slightest touch, he not only made a good deal of noise, he moved until he was right next to her. If she rolled over, she’d be half on top of him.

“Would it be easier for you if I slept in the bathtub?” she asked.

“What? Why?”

She would have given him a withering glare, but it was dark and she was on her side facing away. “You seem to need a lot of room.”

“No, actually, I don’t. I just wanted to be close.”

“I haven’t changed my mind, Paul. Besides, you’re in no condition.”

“You’re wrong about that, but I’m very clear that you said no. I won’t press the issue.”

“So what’s with the close?”

“You smell nice. And I want to talk.”

She swallowed at the compliment, then let it go for what it was. “Talk about what?”

“We can start with your famous bar buddies.”

Gwen sighed. “Well then, move over.”

He did, then she sat up, holding the covers over her chest as she put her pillow behind her back.

Paul evidently thought that was a good move, and he followed suit. “Bar buddies?”

“It’s nothing. I go to a sports bar on Monday nights. They play sports trivia.”

“Are you good?” he asked.

“I’m great.”

Paul grunted.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

She looked at him, more awake than she’d been a minute ago. “I won last year’s overall championship.”

“All sports?”

“All the major sports. It’s not just a local contest, either. It’s all over America and Canada. I happen to play at Bats and Balls, but there are hundreds of bars that participate.”

“Whoa. Okay, sorry I questioned your expertise, but it still doesn’t answer my question.”

“Which was…?”

“Bar buddies.”

“Men play there, too. Eve finds it suspicious that I hang out with men and we’re all just friends.”

He turned his head, although she couldn’t make out his expression. “Eve’s an idiot.”

“Yes. She is,” she said, quite definitely. Then she smiled, just because.

PAUL STRETCHED HIS NECK as he hunkered down in the bed. The dizziness, thank God, had eased and sleep was creeping up the blankets. Still, he didn’t want Gwen to stop talking. He wanted to fade out on her soft voice. He wished that was all he wanted.

They’d talked baseball, moved on to football then somehow got onto favorite pizza joints, but he wasn’t sure where she was now. He’d tuned out the words a while ago, concentrating on the sound. His thoughts had drifted as he’d been lulled by her low seductive tone. He knew he wouldn’t be able to stay awake for more than a few minutes and dammit, he wanted to touch her. Just touch her.

She stopped talking and the quiet wasn’t half as nice, but then she shifted until they were lying side by side with a more than decent space between them.

Paul turned to face her. When she didn’t object, he inched a little closer. With the room so dark, he had no signals to tell him if she was cringing or amenable. The last thing he wanted was to freak her out. “You awake?” he whispered.

“Barely.”

“Would you hate it if I got closer?”

She was silent for several seconds, which gave him all the answer he needed.

“Never mind. Sweet dreams.” He closed his eyes, letting it go. It had been a foolish thought. He wasn’t a cuddler, never had been. He was pretty damn sure this weird feeling had more to do with alcohol than desire.

That feeling came over him—a twilight kind of buzz that precedes slumber. He welcomed the sensation.

When she shifted again he didn’t think anything of it. Not until her backside brushed his hip.

The buzz now in his body was of an entirely different nature. Oddly, he didn’t go into sex mode. It wasn’t about that. When he put his arm around her tummy, the softness of her skin felt perfect. When he spooned her so that he felt her body against his chest, his thighs, he smiled with contentment.

This was exactly what he’d wanted. And from her sigh, he knew she wasn’t unhappy about it, either.

He closed his eyes and drifted off.

GWEN WASN’T SURE how long she’d been in his arms. All she knew was that Paul had fallen asleep, his body cupping hers in an embrace that should have had her running for a cab. Only she didn’t want to run.

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so good. Even the headache that was just starting to bloom in her temples didn’t bother her.

Maybe all of it—the way she’d danced like a fool, agreeing to spend the night, this—had a simple explanation. Touch.

She hadn’t been touched in a long, long time. Maybe a handshake or two, but his palm on her tummy, her body pressed to his, that hadn’t happened for what, six months? Longer?

No wonder she’d had difficulty saying no. People were wired to need contact. The more, the better. A huge part of pair bonding had to do with the chemicals humans released when they were skin to skin.

Not that she wanted to pair bond with Paul. Not only was his taste in women completely suspect, but he was just too good-looking.

No, except for his love of baseball…and poker, and dancing. And okay, he had a pretty good sense of humor and he liked horror flicks, still, there was nothing about Paul that appealed to her.

It was the touch thing. He hadn’t been in Autumn’s pants yet, so he’d been without for a while. One would assume. And Gwen hadn’t been close to anyone since Alex. So she should just go to sleep now. Take comfort where it was offered and let the rest fade away.

She found his hand, the one draping her waist, and she put her own hand over his. She moved her leg and her back until she was perfectly comfy with maximum touching. She matched her breathing to his slow, even rhythm. Yet sleep didn’t come.

Her weary, stupefied mind kept dancing. Not just to the swing band from earlier, but to the look of indignation on his face when Faith and Eve had said their horrible things. To the way his eyes had lit up when she’d confessed her Dodger addiction. To the way he moaned, just then, as he dreamed. As he held her.

As far as pity dates went, this one had been the best yet. A grand slam.

She yawned once, squeezed his hand, and that was it.

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