Page 34 of Scoring Chance

A messy house. Loud kids. And a tortuous bed. What a fucking night.

And yet, I’ve never felt more settled.

11

TANNER

It’s hard to fall asleep when I know someone in my house is tossing and turning. I have a preternatural ability to hear the faint sounds of a mattress shift or a general rustling in what should be a quiet bedroom. I am the princess, and each sound is another pea in between my mattress.

Tonight though, it isn’t one of my kids refusing to join the land of nod. It’s the adult man on my couch. The sound of a creaking mattress (not the fun kind of creaking) cuts through the silence like a leaf blower in a library. Again. And again. After trying to ignore it, I finally crack one eye open and glance at the glowing red numbers of my alarm clock.

1:33 a.m.

Every few minutes, Des rustles downstairs like he’s in the final round of a wrestling match with the pull-out. A sharp huff, followed by a muffled curse. A squeak from the old metal frame of the pullout couch echoes up the stairs. One of the springs pings with the enthusiasm of a snapped violin string.

If this keeps going on, then the kids will wake up and nobody will get any sleep.

I push my blanket off and creep down the stairs in my sweatpants and Hershey Park T-shirt from an old family vacation. I find Des lying flat on his back, staring at the ceiling with all the despair of a man who’s just learned that this is his life now—trapped in a zoo with four small, loud animals and generic coffee in the mornings.

“Hey. You good?” I whisper.

Des flinches, like I’ve caught him mid-internal monologue. He sits up, causing the pull-out mattress to release another yelp.

“Oh, just great,” he says, rubbing his lower back. “This couch is a war crime.”

“I warned you it sucked.”

“Where did you get it from? The pits of hell?”

“Close. Marty’s Discount Furniture.” Despite being a store in New York, Marty dresses like a cowboy and will have customers celebrate their purchase by lassoing the floor model. At least he has a cooler of ice cream sandwiches for kids while the parents shop. Definitely not the type of store Des would ever step foot in.

“I think one of the springs dug so deep into my back it branded me.” Des turns and lifts his shirt. He has a great back. Corded muscle and smooth skin. There’s something about the prowess of a strong back for me.

I should be looking for mattress scars, not ogling my friend’s back, though.

“No scars. It’s all in your head,” I tell him.

He lowers his shirt. My shirt. And jogger pants. My clothes look great on him.

“Jesus.” His hair is sticking up in about twelve directions, a change from his usually well-coiffed style. Even chic bachelors get bedhead. It makes him look more human and less mannequin. “My mattress in my apartment is like sleeping on a cloud. It has individually wrapped coils.”

“Do you even know what that means?”

“No. But the salesguy said it was important.”

I snort a laugh. A beat of silence passes between us.

“You want to come share my bed?”

Des lifts an eyebrow.

“It’s a queen. We won’t touch,” I add, perhaps a bit too quickly.

He looks at me. “You’re serious?”

“It’s either that or death by cheap mattress. You need your beauty sleep. You have a busy day of writing mustard jingles.”

“I am executing brand strategies to maximize awareness and increase revenue.” Somehow, Des makes corporate speak sound charming. “Will it be…weird?”