Chapter 7

Hannah

After returning from an invigorating hike where we took in scenic views of oak forests and the San Joaquin River, Culver spoke to Jerry about switching rooms.

He came back with good news and bad news.

The good news was that we were able to move to another room with an actual proper mattress designed for humans to sleep on.

The bad news is that there was only one of said proper mattresses in the room and no other rooms available at the motel.

I can't remember ever seeing Culver look more bashful than when he broke the news to me.

I instantly thought of Beth and Amiel because isn't only one bed a romance trope, too? They'd have a field day with this if they ever found out.

Which they won't because I'm not telling them, or any of the Fast-Talking Five, anything about this marriage of convenience until after my hot girl summer is over.

After swapping rooms, Culver and I found some board games in the cupboard and spent the afternoon engaged in epic Monopoly, Scrabble, Guess Who?, and Hungry Hungry Hippos battles. It was all very wholesome eighties fun.

Culver didn't seem keen on trying out the local diner, so we ordered pizzas when we got hungry, which as it turns out, was a mistake since they weren't great and Culver spent the whole time pointing out all the things wrong with them.

The plus side? He promised to change up our dinners to make me a 'proper Italian pizza' so I knew what it tasted like.

It's been a long day, so we decide to call it a night early.

I shower and finish brushing my teeth and go to put on my sleep shirt only…shoot. I didn't bring it into the bathroom with me. I wrap the towel covering my body a little tighter—and a little higher—and call out, "Culver!"

I wait.

No response.

I move closer to the bathroom door. "Culver!"

How can he not hear me? The room isn't that big. Unless he's gone out to get something?

I crack open the door just a fraction and call out again.

No answer.

Okay, he must have stepped out. My sleep shirt and pajama shorts are in my line of sight, perched on top of my suitcase. A quick dash, and I'll be back here before he returns from wherever he's gone off to.

I swing the door wide open, race out of the bathroom and—stop dead in my tracks.

Culver's impressive frame is hunched over the couch in the corner of the room. He lets fly with a string of expletives, arms flailing about. He grumbles some more then swings around to face me…me, who's wearing nothing but a towel.

His face looks like a clown at the county fair, eyes wide and mouth open in surprise. He yanks his AirPods out of his ears. "Hey."

"Hey yourself."

His eyes roam up and down my body, and then, as if catching himself, he abruptly shifts to face the wall. "We, uh, need to stop meeting like this."

I grin at his joke. "At least I'm wearing a towel to cover myself, unlike a certain someone I know."

He drops his gaze to the ground. "Why are you wearing a towel?"

Is it my imagination or has his voice gone all husky?

"I left my pajamas out here."

"Oh. Okay."

I quickly race across the room and pluck them from the top of my suitcase. "What were you doing before I interrupted? It sounded intense."

He turns to the couch, his back to me. His impressively wide-shouldered back that tapers down in a V-shape to his waist.

"Fighting with a pull-out couch that is not living up to its name."

"I'll be back in a moment to give you a hand, if you like."

He turns his head slightly to the side. "Hey, Hannah?"

"Yeah?"

"You can…Nah. Forget it."

"What?"

He's quiet for a while, his shoulders rising and falling with every breath he takes. He flicks his arm toward his open suitcase. "You can wear one of my shirts if you like."

I'm taken aback.

He wants me to wear one of his shirts?

"Forget it. It's stup?—"

"Can I wear this one?"

I lift up a black Luke Combs graphic tee.

He glances over, then averts his gaze. The back of his head bobs. "Of course."

"Thanks. I'll be back in a minute."

I duck into the bathroom and replace the towel with Culver's shirt. It's one I've seen him wear a lot around the house, and even though it's clean, it still carries the faint scent of him. I pull the front of the shirt over my nose and inhale deeply.

When I lower it back down, I spot my reflection in the foggy mirror.

I'm smiling.

I look…happy.

I am happy.

This is fun and silly, and when was the last time I did anything fun and silly?

Isn't that what the hot girl summer is all about?

When I step back into the room, Culver is still battling with the uncooperative sofa. He stops as soon as he sees me, his eyes lingering on his shirt on my body, and he gives a small nod.

"Stupid thing is jammed," he tells me when I stand next to him.

He subtly checks me out once more.

"I know the shirt is big"—understatement; like with the first shirt of his I wore, I am positively drowning in it—"but does it look bad?"

"No." He sweeps his hand through his hair, his gaze so intense it makes my skin hot. "You look great, Hannah."

"Cool…thanks. Should we, um, get back to the couch?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah. The couch. This is as far as it goes."

The pull-out mechanism seems to be stuck midway so the mattress is partially exposed and the frame is only half-extended.

I grab the steel bar and try to wrestle with it, but the stubborn thing doesn't budge, whether I pull it or push it. I rest my hip against it and use my bodyweight to force it.

Still nothing.

"Your assessment appears correct. The stupid thing is jammed." I step back and wipe my hands. "On the plus side, our room now comes with a modern art installation. On the minus side, I'll have to take the floor."

"You are not taking the floor."

"But I was going to take the couch."

Culver presses the back of his hand against my forehead.

"What are you doing?" I ask.

"Checking to see if you're running a fever because there's no way unaffected Hannah would ever think I'd let her sleep on a fold-out sofa."

"But you wouldn't have fit on it," I counter.

"Doesn't matter." He moves his hand away. "I'd have made it work."

"It's a moot point now anyway."

We both stare at the half-unfolded couch.

"I'll sleep on the floor," he says, his voice rumbling with authority.

"You can't sleep on the floor. Not with your hip." I twirl a strand of hair around my finger, mulling the situation over. "Look. We're both adults. We can sleep in the same bed."

He aims his brown eyes at me with such precision, it makes my core clench.

Silence rings in my ears.

"I guess," he says slowly. "I'll go ask for extra pillows so we can make a line."

"A line?"

"Yeah. Down the middle of the bed. Create a my side, your side situation."

"Are you really that afraid of sharing a bed with me?"

"I am not afraid of sharing a bed with you. I just want to be…respectful."

"You are respectful. You always have been. I feel safe with you."

He tilts his head to the side. "Good. Because you are. Safe, that is. I would never…" He holds my gaze for a while longer. "I guess I should go ask about those pillows."

He returns a few minutes later, armed with as many pillows as he can carry. He places them down the middle of the bed. He's acting a little tense, but it's also a little cute.

We've now had two moments, and he asked me to wear his shirt. To bed.

You know what?

I think I'm becoming a big fan of this whole marriage-of-convenience, only-one-bed trope thing. Maybe I'll get into reading romance novels. I'd love to see how they play out.

When he's done arranging the bed into two distinct and separate sides, he says, "I'm going to take a shower."

"Cool. I'll be waiting for you. In bed. Husband."

He huffs out a shaky laugh as he leaves. "This is so weird," he mutters under his breath.

While he's in the shower, I make myself comfortable on my side of the bed. I flatten the pillows between us so we can at least see each other…because we are not in middle school.

A few minutes later, the bathroom door opens, releasing a plume of hot air. Culver is wearing his usual compression leggings and top.

"I don't know how you can sleep in those colors," I say, shielding my face with my hand, like I'm protecting myself from a beam of sunlight.

Most people would probably go for either black, white, or gray colors to sleep in.

Culver isn't most people.

He's managed to track down and buy every neon variation of compression wear ever made.

"I have my eyes closed so I don't see what I'm wearing," he says, chuckling as he drops some clothes into his suitcase and turns off the light in the corner of the room before padding over to the bed.

He slides into his side so delicately, the mattress barely moves. I lift my head off the pillow and see he's literally clinging to the edge of the bed.

"You're going to fall off if you sleep there," I say.

"I'm fine. I'm a very still sleeper. Barely move."

"Fine. Suit yourself." I turn off the bedside light. "Goodnight, Culver."

He does the same and the room goes black. "'Night, Hannah."

It takes me a moment to adjust to the darkness. A streetlamp shines through the cracks in the blinds, creating a dim yellow glow.

For the first time since Culver's been back, I don't fall asleep immediately. After a few minutes, I whisper, "Are you awake?"

"No. This is me sleep-talking."

I smile. "Wanna talk?"

"Sure."

"What are you thinking about?"

He breathes out through his nose. "I was thinking that now that the twins are gone, you'll have more time for dating."

Oh. He's lying in bed thinking about my dating life. That's…odd?

Nice?

Oddly nice?

"Yeah. I guess I will."

"Unless you're seeing someone now?"

"I'm a married woman. What are you accusing me of?"

He chuckles, then props himself on his elbow, facing me. "But seriously, is there someone?"

I really hope the light in the room is dim enough that he can't read my face, because the only thing worse than hiding my true feelings for him is lying to him about them. It's why I always try to stamp out any questions about my romantic life with the I don't have time line and deflect back to him.

But with the twins gone for the summer and starting college in the fall, I don't have that excuse to fall back on anymore.

"I'm not dating anyone," I reply. "What about you?"

He lies back down. "Surprise, surprise."

"What?"

"You're avoiding the question. Like you always do."

"So are you," I retort.

"I'm only avoiding your question because you avoided mine first."

"First thing in the morning, I'm calling a divorce lawyer. You're insufferable."

He's grinning just like I am as we fall silent, waiting to see who speaks first. I hope it's him because there's literally nothing going on in my love life apart from being secretly in love with him.

I know Culver has dated a few women. I also know that it's never lasted. He hasn't ever filled me in on why it's never lasted, which I am curious about.

"I'm not seeing anyone, either," he finally says.

"Oh. Okay," I say, releasing a breath. "Any reason?"

"So many reasons."

I flick on my bedside lamp and turn onto my side, facing him. "Want to talk about it?"

He stares up at the ceiling. "Not much to tell. I'm just not great at dating."

"I seriously doubt that."

He smiles sadly. "It's true. I'm not Mr. Grand Romantic Gesture like some people we know. And I…I find it hard to open up."

A beat passes, and then I ask, "Why?"

"Remember last year, when I saw a therapist for a few months?"

"Yeah."

"He said something during one of our sessions that has stuck with me." He exhales, then turns over so he's looking me square in the eye. "He said I have a severe fear of losing someone…again."

"Again?" It takes my brain a second to get it. "Oh. Right. Trevor."

He nods. "Yeah. Trevor. Apparently, complex childhood trauma can make having healthy relationships as an adult difficult. Borderline impossible, in my case. I'm good at keeping things light and fun, but I can never go any deeper. It's surface-level only. It's never like how it is with you."

My heart thuds faster in my chest, but now is not the time to interpret what he just said through a romantic lens. He's being vulnerable, and I'm sure he means what he said in a friendship way only.

"On top of that, I've got injuries piling up, an uncertain future post-hockey, and with the less-than-stellar financial decisions I've made, I don't feel like I'm…" He squeezes his eyes shut, his mouth set in a grimace. "Like I'm good enough to be with anyone."

"Culver." I push the pillows out of the way and stroke his arm. "You're a good person. That's what counts. Not the state of your body or how much money you have in the bank."

"I know. But I also want to be the best version of myself. I don't want to enter into a relationship as a half. I want to be a whole."

I smile. "That's really beautiful."

His eyes meet mine.

He doesn't say anything, and neither do I. We just look at each other for what feels like a really long time.

It should be weird.

Maybe it is weird

But weirdly, it doesn't feel weird.

Something is shifting between us and…and I want him to kiss me.

Right here.

Right now.

My breath quickens, coming out in brief, rapid puffs.

"What are you thinking?" he asks, his voice deep, low, gentle.

He runs a finger across my shoulder.

Am I imagining it, or am I picking up on a vibe from him, too?

Ugh. I don't want to overthink this.

So don't, a small voice in the back of my head whispers. If it feels good, do it.

So I say it. "I want to kiss you."

Apart from his eyebrows lifting a fraction, there's no other reaction on his face to the massive bomb I've just dropped.

"That's too bad," he murmurs, lightly stroking the side of my face with his fingertips. "Because I also want to kiss you."

"I think we can come to a mutually beneficial arrangement."

He shuffles closer, runs his thumb down my cheek, brushing it ever so softly over my lower lip.

"Are you sure this is what you want, Hannah?"

"I am." My heart flutters with anticipation. "Hot girl summer rules, remember?"

He cups his big hand around my neck, leans in closer, and smiles. "If it feels good, do it."

"Uh-huh."

"Well then, you'll have to tell me, Hannah. Does this feel good?"

Our lips meet, and I instantly have my answer.

Heck yes, this feels good. Really, really good.

But I'm not going to break the kiss to tell him that. Do I look like an idiot? This might be my only chance to experience what my best friend's kissing game is like.

And his kissing game, much like his hockey game, is exceptional.

Smooth. Intuitive. Well-paced.

He waits for my lips to part before deepening the kiss. His tongue sweeps into my mouth, sending warm tendrils of pleasure shooting up and down my spine.

He's gentle, yet strong.

Powerful, but not cocky.

And so deeply masculine it's…it's intoxicating.

I drive my fingers into his thick curls, determined to savor every single second of this unexpected moment.

"Well?" he asks when we break apart.

"Well, what?" I croak.

His dark-brown eyes are gleaming with an intensity I've never seen before. "Did that feel good?"

"It was…okay."

"Just okay?"

I suppress my smile as I snatch up the remaining pillows between us and start flinging them off the bed.

"What are you doing?" he asks.

I wait until the bed is completely pillow-free before answering. "I may have known you my entire life, but I realize I don't know your position on one very important matter."

He frowns. "What's that?'

"Snuggles."

"Snuggles?"

"Yes. Are you for or against?"

His frown vanishes, replaced by a wide grin. "For. Very for."

"Good. And because I don't want to assume anything, I have to ask—big spoon or little spoon?"

"Little," he answers without any hesitation.

"Oh."

He waits a few seconds. "I'm joking."

I let out a breath. "Is it bad that I feel relieved?"

He chuckles. "Not at all."

A few seconds later, he envelops me with his big, warm body.

"How does this feel?" he asks, wrapping me up in his arms.

"Good."

"I'm glad."

"And for the record…"

"Yeah?"

"The kiss wasn't good."

"Oh."

I peer over my shoulder and smile. "It was exceptional."

The next morning, I wake up before Culver.

I'm still cradled in his arms, with the slow steady rhythm of his breathing against my back. We must not have moved all night.

I try lifting his arm carefully to wriggle out of his grip, but the movement makes him stir, and he bundles me even closer into his body.

I didn't know Culver has a possessive side. Or at least, his subconscious does.

Not that I mind. I only want to freshen up a little before he wakes up because how do romance novels handle the issue of morning breath? Does everyone wake up with minty fresh breath and simply resume kissing?

I smile at the thought of having another kiss this morning.

Because, yeah, exceptional doesn't even begin to do that kiss justice. I may be a virgin, but I have kissed a few guys, and let me just say, Culver's kiss last night blew every other kiss I've had out of the water.

Out of the ocean.

Out of the stratosphere.

Behind me, he yawns, stretches his legs out, and then rolls over onto his back.

I turn around. His face is covered by his arm and he's…wincing?

Yikes. Is my morning breath so bad it's stunk out the whole room?

But then I see what his other hand is doing. He's running it up and down his leg.

"Are you okay?" I ask.

He nods, grimacing. "Yeah. It's always bad in the morning."

"Can I get you anything?"

He removes his hand from his face and cracks open an eye. "You can."

"What? Pills? Water? Name it."

"Another kiss."

I sit upright. "Excuse me?"

"Doctor's orders. Pills are okay and all, but she recommended starting the day with a kiss. Preferably from a beautiful woman because apparently that makes it more effective."

I move his words to my obsession box, which I'll be foraging around in later because right now, I'm worried about him. "Be serious. Do you need pills?"

"No. It's fine. Really." He stresses the word when he sees the concerned look on my face. "I'll get up in a minute and walk around. And you don't have to kiss me again."

"I don't mind kissing you again. It's just…"

"What?"

"Morning breath."

"You don't have morning breath."

"What about my hair?"

"It looks great. Also, if we do kiss again, I'd like to keep things traditional and stick to kissing your lips and not your hair."

"Well…"

He coughs into his hand, but funnily enough, his cough sounds an awful lot like, "Hotgirlsummer."

"Okay. We can kiss. For medical reasons."

He grins. "For medical reasons."

We kiss again.

It's light and tender and sweet and everything a first thing in the morning and you're slightly concerned about morning breath kiss should be.

Culver cups my face in his giant hands. "I just want to make sure—are you okay with this? And with last night's kiss?"

"Yeah. I am." I suck in a breath. "What about you?"

"I'm very okay with both instances."

"Good."

"Good."

A memory suddenly comes to mind.

When Evie was going through an issue with Fraser and we were all consoling her at Bear's diner, Beth's advice was to communicate honestly.

Admittedly, that advice was plucked straight from what she doesn't like about romance novels—miscommunication—and it applied to a very different situation than this one, and while I am very much aware that this is real life and Culver and I are not in a romance novel, her words ring true.

Culver and I need to talk. Properly.

"So I was thinking…" he says at the same time as I say, "Maybe we should…"

"You first," we say at the same time.

Then we smile.

Then we both open our mouths at the same time.

Then he zips up his lips with one hand while indicating for me to go first with the other.

"Okay. What I was going to say is, maybe we could add kisses to the hot girl summer list? Unless your doctor thinks that might be overdoing it?"

He unzips his lips faster than our grandmothers at the first hint of gossip. "No no. My doc is totally fine with it. Recommends it, actually. Daily kisses are ideal."

"Daily kisses." My head bobs a few times. "I like that. Okay. Your turn. What were you going to say?"

"I was going to say that I was thinking maybe we should add kisses to our nightly routine."

I giggle. "Great minds think alike."

"They sure do."

"So, daily slash nightly kisses it is."