Page 47 of Meant for Mayhem

“No.”

I peeked over my shoulder to find Mikko now on his feet, walking toward me. “No?”

“I’m sleeping on the floor.”

That made me turn around, the nervousness leaving my body. “I’m not making you sleep on the floor of your own house, Mikko.”

He shrugged, then pulled the cream blanket off the end of the bed and grabbed a pillow. “What’s yours is mine, rakas. Better me on the floor than you convincing yourself the bathtub is a reasonable alternative to a bed.”

I squeezed my eyes shut because damn him. Fight or flight was very much telling me that returning to the safety of the bathroom was still an option, but now that he’d said it aloud, I couldn’t.

“You’re big,” I said, then blushed furiously when Mikko’s lips turned up into a smirk. “I mean, it’s big. The bed. Your bed.”

He walked toward me, pillow and blanket still in his grip. “I am big, yes. But the bed is yours.”

When he turned to walk by me, I reached out and grabbed his arm, stilling him. His skin was warm under mine, the muscles in his forearm making my hand look tiny, only proving his point.

“It’s a large bed,” I said, then wanted to slap myself in the face. Why was I pushing this? And why was the idea of Mikko getting a terrible night’s sleep worse than how uncomfortable this whole thing made me? “We’ll survive one night.”

“Okay.” His shoulders relaxed, but mine absolutely did not.

We climbed into bed with enough empty mattress between us to comfortably fit another adult, but it still felt impossibly close. Neither of us said much as we settled against the headboard. Mikko picked his book back up, decidedly not looking at me while I reached for my tablet, determined to lose myself in literally anyone else’s problems.

Between growing up with a revolving door of terrible male role models and a high school boyfriend I’d spent the better part of a decade regretting, I’d never actually slept in a bed with a man before.

Not like this.

Mikko, on the other hand, seemed completely unbothered.

Every few minutes he’d quietly turn another page, the bookshelves lining the wall making it painfully obvious he wasn’t doing this to impress me. Those shelves were full of worn paperbacks and cracked spines, stories that had clearly been read more than once.

Stupid me for finding that hotter than the glasses and muscles and sweatpants combined.

I opened the romance I’d started last week, determined to focus on someone besides the broad-shouldered hockey player sharing my bed. Three pages in, I’d mentally replaced the dark-haired single dad cowboy with a blond Finnish hockey player carrying a toddler on one hip.

Absolutely not.

Back to my library, clicking on a fantasy instead.

Fantasy was safe.

Until a Viking warrior stepped through a portal in time.

You’ve got to be kidding me.

Another swipe.

Marriage of convenience.

Nope.

Forced proximity.

Definitely not.

One bed.

I closed my eyes. “Seriously?”