The Love Wager by Lynn Painter

            “I think, um, well, I was thinking. That.”

            He raised one eyebrow. “That . . . ?”

            “That since we’re both staying in this room, uh, together, maybe we should, um. Maybe we should . . .”

            He whipped off the tie and dropped it by his suitcase, his gaze intense. “Should what?”

            She swallowed. “We should, um, take turns using the bathroom.”

            His eyes narrowed as he unbuttoned his top button. “As opposed to . . . using it at the same time . . . ?”

            “No.” She rolled her eyes. “I just have to wash my face. Can I have the bathroom first?” she asked.

            He gave her a weird look. “Of course.”

            “Awesome.” Hallie went over to her suitcase and pulled out the super-safe, not-sexy pajamas she’d decided to bring on the trip: her oversized, knee-length flannel nightshirt and a pair of tall, fuzzy socks. She walked past him and went into the bathroom, and it wasn’t until the door was closed and locked that she silent-screamed and wanted to smack herself in the face.

            We’re adults, Jack, and we’ve slept together before. Since we don’t have emotional baggage, why not sleep together again? We obviously have sexual chemistry, so I say we do whatever feels right this weekend and then leave it all in Vail. As long as we don’t feel anything other than sexual attraction, it won’t be a problem, right?

            She felt a hell of a lot more than that, but no way was she going to put it out there. No, her plan was to throw every single thing into the fake relationship this weekend, and maybe by the time they returned home, they would share their mutual feelings for each other.

            Crazier things had happened, right?

            But she had to say it casually enough so he wouldn’t get freaked again. Obviously he was worried she’d get emotionally attached—hence the closet conversation—so she needed him to believe that she wouldn’t.

            She took off the white dress and changed into—ugh—the world’s least sexy pajamas. She fluffed up her hair, put on vanilla lotion, spritzed her belly button with Chanel No. 5, and pulled on her tall tube socks.

            Wow, not even an inch of exposed skin.

            When she came out of the bathroom, she was surprised to see Jack standing out on the balcony, in the dark. The lights from their room illuminated his tall form, and she could see he’d stripped down to his white undershirt, dress pants, and bare feet. “Which side of the bed do you want?” she asked.

            He turned around, looked at her, and scowled. “That is what you’re sleeping in?” He stepped back inside, sliding the door closed.

            “Shut up,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I know it’s—”

            “You don’t have any pants you can wear?”

            She paused. “What?”

            “Pants.” He pointed to her legs, his eyebrows all bunched together, and repeated, “Pants. You don’t have any you can sleep in?”

            She narrowed her eyes. “No . . . ?”

            He sighed. “We can’t sleep in the same bed if you’re not wearing pants. Come on, Hal.”

            “Are you kidding me right now?” She heard her voice rise to an irritating pitch. “You think my pajamas are, what—inappropriate?”

            He said, “They’re not inappropriate unless we’re sharing a bed.”

            “Then they’re inappropriate?” she asked, wondering if he was losing it.

            “Yes.”

            “Yes?”

            “Yes.”

            She put her hands on her hips. “What is wrong with you?”

            “Hal, I didn’t bring any pajama pants,” he said, as if that totally explained his reaction to her pajamas. “I sleep in my boxers.”

            “So?”