She pivoted toward him and the light hit him in the eyes, practically blinding him. “Why didn’t your family do anything to stop him?”
He held his hand over his eyes and squinted to make out her figure behind the light. “They decided as addictions go, his was pretty benign. It didn’t hurt anyone and he had plenty of money. Plus, it made him happy.” His hands on her shoulders, he swirled her around to face the other direction and blinked back the residual floating stars in his eyes. “His bedroom is at the end of the hall.”
She took a couple of steps then stopped. “Which room is mine?”
This was going to be fun. “His room.”
“Which is yours?”
“The same.”
She twirled, knocking into him and he put his arms out to steady her. “What do you mean?”
He didn’t have a clue how to platonically sleep with a woman, but he figured it couldn’t be much different than bunking with a guy. Except the guys he’d slept in close contact with didn’t smell like a sweet dessert he’d give anything to taste. “What do you think I mean? I told you Uncle Al sold off all the bedroom sets to make room for his jewelry, grills, and cookbooks. There’s only one bedroom. One bed. But don’t worry. It’s large enough for us both.”
“No way.” She waved the flashlight around, giving him a glimpse of the less than pleased expression on her face. “I’m not sleeping in the same bed with you.”
“We don’t have a choice. It’s not a big deal, Portia. You can trust me not to jump you in the middle of the night.”
He practically heard the wheels cranking in her head. What was she so afraid of?
“Can’t you bring your bed?”
Wow. She really didn’t want to share a bed. Was it because she didn’t trust him or because she didn’t trust herself?
He continued down the hallway, and huffing a sigh, she followed. “I don’t own one. I’ve been living in Braden’s house and the furniture is his.” He’d sold off everything he owned when he lost his money.
“Can’t you buy one?” she asked, a note of desperation in her voice.
Now at the end of the hallway, he opened the double doors to the master suite and a waft of Old Spice hit his face. His uncle’s cologne. Even with his billions, he’d never bothered to change it, believing once you found your scent, it became a part of you. That’s why Ryan never wore any fragrance. He didn’t want to commit to anything before he was ready. “Yes, but not tonight. We’ll only have to share for a day or two.”
They both entered the room, and she passed the light over the huge bed. “You can sleep on the couch.”
“You’ve seen the couches. Does it look like anyone could sleep on those?”
“No.” She sighed. “Fine, I’ll sleep on the floor.”
He could just imagine his uncle watching over them, shaking his head. He’d call Portia “a silly, hysterical woman” and tell Ryan to “sleep on the floor like a dog because as the man, he must ensure the female’s comfort.” Of course, he’d speak in Greek.
He wandered past the wall of dressers, leaned the suitcases against the wall, and sat on the edge of the bed. “Don’t be silly. If you’re really uncomfortable about the sleeping arrangements, I’ll sleep on the floor. I wouldn’t want you to accuse me of not being a gentleman.”
“I’m the one who won’t share the bed. The least I can do is take the floor.” She sat next to him. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”
He didn’t know a lot about her and her family. His Aunt Tina joined the family when he was seven and he didn’t remember Uncle Al’s first wife, who died when he was a toddler. Tina hadn’t talked much about her sister. When he was a teenager, he overheard her tell his mother that she wished Reina would accept the money she offered. It had surprised him because he’d never heard of anyone turning down money. He laughed to himself. Tonight, Braden had once again offered him money, this time to fix up the house, and Ryan had again refused. How he’d changed these last couple of years.
A large fist squeezed his heart. He shifted on the bed, his thigh brushing against hers. “You’ve slept on the floor?”
She pointed the light toward the floor and her legs straightened out in front of her. She began making circles with her feet, one at a time. “Sometimes they didn’t have enough beds in the shelters, so we’d throw our sleeping bags on the floor. At least they had heat, which was better than some of the communes we lived in. Our tent wasn’t half bad, but even Florida can get cold at night.” Her feet stopped moving and she coughed. “Please. I’m sure your sense of chivalry is protesting allowing a woman to sleep on the floor, but it’s my choice. I promise you I’m not going to hold some residual resentment and then go all postal on you tomorrow. It’s been a long day and I’d just like to get my pajamas on and sleep until the sun comes up.”