He would have to remember that language, for whenever he got up the courage to tell her how he felt. Something told him she’d like any comparison to spreadsheets.
But not tonight. He gave her hand another squeeze, leaning forward to kiss her forehead.
“I promise you’re the most fun,” he said.
“For a robot.”
“Nah,” he said. “You’re clicking your way through all those traffic lights, baby.”
He’d meant it to come out breezy, a lighthearted callback to the speech she’d made during karaoke that had made her so self-conscious. But the endearment came out sounding tender instead, and when she rolled to her other side, she snuggled into him. He wrapped his arm around her, pulling her closer, and it didn’t take long before they both fell off to sleep.
Chapter
Twenty-One
When Lauren woke up, it took a moment for the night before to come flooding back. It all hit her in a highlight reel of bad decisions, from the karaoke to crying under fake snow to trying to kiss Asa and then asking him to help her take her bra off.
She curled into herself, as if making herself smaller would protect her against the worst of the mortification. But behind her, Asa shifted, his body warm and hard pressed against her.
So the night hadn’t been all bad. She remembered the way Asa had gently cleaned her makeup off for her, the story he’d told about believing in Santa until he was twelve. She remembered the slight rasp in his voice when he’d said I happen to like you exactly as you are. And then she’d fallen asleep with him holding her, and woken up the same way. It was nice. She could get used to the feeling.
His arm was draped loosely over her hip, his bare leg wedged between her knees. He really did give off an insane amount of body heat.
“Asa?” she whispered, trying to gauge if he was awake. She cleared her throat and said his name louder, but he didn’t budge.
She thought about waking him up, or even just staying in the safe, cozy warmth of his embrace, but she really had to pee. It also wouldn’t hurt to have the chance to brush her teeth, freshen up a bit.
She slid out from under his arm and edged herself off the bed, turning to see if the movements had disturbed his sleep at all. He burrowed a little more into her pillow, the blue of his hair extra bright against the white sheets, his mouth slightly open as he breathed the slow, steady breathing of someone still in the deepest non-REM stage. She adjusted her lavender comforter until it was covering him more completely, less because she thought he’d get cold and more because it was just something she wanted to do.
By the time he finally emerged an hour later, she’d showered and dressed and was sitting at the table, nursing a cup of coffee and jotting plans for Cold World down in a notebook. Something had happened overnight and suddenly she was bursting with thoughts and ideas. She couldn’t wait to talk to Asa about them, but she figured if he was anything like her he’d need coffee first.
“Do you want me to pour you some?” she asked, holding up her mug.
He ran his hand through his hair, which was adorably flattened on one side and sticking up on the other. He was still wearing only boxer briefs and an undershirt, and even though he was more covered up than he’d been that day at the beach, her heart sped up a little at the sight of him. “That depends. Do you have cream and sugar, or do you keep your kitchen on some Soviet food rationing system?”
“Ha ha,” she said sarcastically. “I have milk and sugar, if that’ll suit your refined palate.”
“I’m good, actually,” he said. “I did use an extra toothbrush I found still in its packaging under your sink. I hope that was okay.”
“It was probably a BOGO deal. It’s fine.”
He crossed over to where she was sitting, squeezing her shoulder as he came behind her. She liked that casual touch more than she probably should, liked the way he left his hand there as he looked down at the notebook.
“What are you working on?”
“Did you know that in 1977, it snowed as far south as Miami?” She tapped her pen against the bulleted list in front of her. “Places near Orlando reported as much as two inches. The coldest recorded temperature in Florida was negative two degrees, in Tallahassee back in 1899.”
He pulled out the other chair to sit down, pulling the notebook closer so he could read what she’d written. “I see you still don’t have an answer for how cold it has to be to kill someone.”
“Because there are too many factors!” she protested before he looked up and she saw the grin that let her know he was teasing her again. “Besides, that’s too macabre for the interactive exhibit I’m thinking of. The idea is to try to get more families with toddlers or elementary school groups to come in, not to scare them away.”