Christmas in His Bed: Talking in Your Sleep... / Unwrapped / Kiss & Tell. Carrie Alexander
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him poise a pointy-looking tool over the cork, aiming with the hammer over the wooden handle. He smiled at her, full of mischief, and her heart somersaulted, just a little.
“Move back—in case I miss.”
“Maybe we shouldn’t—”
Before she could object, he’d brought the hammer down in three expert taps, never missing a beat, and she watched as he pushed the cork down into the wine, drew back and gently levered the sharp point of the tool from the floating cork. Then they were back at the table, finishing their meal and drinking a spicy pinot noir that had only a few bits of cork floating in the bottle.
“Rafe,” she started, sitting back in her chair, stuffed and not sure how to broach the conversation. He looked at her curiously, but didn’t speak, taking a sip from his glass. The memory of what his mouth felt like—in her dreams, anyway—made her lose her breath for a moment. What was going on?
She never reacted this way to men, even to men she liked. Joy never got the jitters, the quivers and goose bumps other women talked about—in fact, she didn’t experience many of the things with men that other women talked about. It was her nature, and she’d come to accept it, but Rafe was throwing her off.
“I really appreciate this—the food and the company, and the apology, though you know, I’ve been superstressed at work lately. It wasn’t your fault, not really—I don’t know what possessed me to listen to that disk in the middle of the main office. I guess I didn’t think, and that’s my fault, not yours.”
His eyes darkened. “I’m sorry for my part in it anyway. Are you in serious trouble?”
She shrugged. “I managed to save it at the last minute. I came up with an explanation that was more or less true, sorta.” She smiled a little, and he smiled back. “I’m up for a promotion, and I don’t know if it’s going to happen. I deserve it, I’ve worked hard for it, but I’ve been so tired lately, and it’s been hard keeping up with everything that’s landing on my desk.”
“What do you do?”
“Public relations for Carr Toys.”
“Cool! You work for a toy company?”
“Yeah, I thought it would be cool, too. It’s not. Carr is just another big business trying to make its bottom line. There are some really interesting departments, like the toy design or marketing, but my work involves a lot of pressure, arguing and such.”
“How so?”
“I handle toy recalls and company-image issues. You know, like now, with the Toddler Tank, the truck?”
“I saw that story in the paper—that’s you?”
“Well, yeah, I’m the lead on customer relations and media communications. It’s been a disaster, the wheels falling off of the truck that every little boy wants for Christmas, wheels that present a potential choking hazard. Parents hate Carr toys, and I have to somehow make them happy—the parents and the company.”
“That doesn’t sound fun,” he admitted with a frown. “I never really thought about what happened on the company end of one of those recalls.”
“You mentioned you’re an EMT, like for the fire department?” she asked, taking the focus away from herself. The wine was making her warm. She studied the slight sheen of perspiration on Rafe’s brow, finding it sexy, and licked her lips unconsciously, the taste of wine and sauce still lingering there. She wondered if he tasted as he did in her dreams….
“Yeah, in New York City, for a hospital, not the NYFD. Best city in the world, no offense.” He grinned again. “But the insomnia has been dogging me for months—I finally had to take a leave of absence when I almost crashed my ambulance. So, here I am, trying to get over it. Thought a vacation somewhere new, away from the job, might help.”
She groaned. “Only to find a loud woman next door keeping you up all night … I’m so sorry. I wish there was something I could do about it. I keep having these dreams,” she said emphatically and then remembered whom she was talking to—and exactly whom she was dreaming about—and stopped short.
“When did they start?” he prompted softly, but the mood changed between them, crackling with sexual tension. She swallowed hard.
“I was having them for a while, but they were just fuzzy, indistinct, frustrating…. Then when you moved in, I saw you…. Suddenly they were about you. I don’t know why.”
He nodded, and her face turned even hotter, though it wasn’t the wine anymore. She was incredibly embarrassed at what she was revealing—the wine was loosening her tongue a little too much, and she pushed the glass away.
“Hey, don’t be embarrassed. I’m flattered, personally speaking, but on the other hand, somniloquy is a real sleep disorder.”
“Som—what?”
“Somniloquy—talking in your sleep. I know what hell a sleepless night can be. Are you having any other problems, lost sleep, etcetera?”
She wanted to kiss him for understanding—or maybe she just wanted to kiss him, period—and nodded emphatically. “Yes, I’m exhausted. I sleep all night, or seem to, but I am dead tired in the morning.”
“Your body is sleeping but your mind isn’t—you’re probably waking up more frequently than you realize, and lack of sleep will catch up with you.”
“You know a lot about sleep.”
“That’s what happens when you don’t get much of it—I’ve been through the grinder trying to solve my own disorder.”
He was being so kind, and that he understood and was so sympathetic made everything far too intimate between them for some reason. She stood and took their plates to the sink, needing to get up and put some distance between them, but it didn’t work. He stood and followed her with the remainder of the table’s contents.
“Have you tried a sleep clinic, or taking pills?”
She grimaced, leaning against the sink. “I don’t think pills will help me stop dreaming about you.” She clapped a hand over her mouth too late, sputtering, “I mean, uh …”
He chuckled, reaching past her to turn on the faucet, filling the sink with soapy water. He was way too close, she observed, inhaling his masculine scent, but she didn’t move away.
“I know what you mean,” he said, leaning against the sink, facing her. “I guess the question is what can you—or we—do about it?”
RAFE WATCHED THE ROSES bloom in her cheeks again. He was fascinated with every little thing about this woman and far too turned on. He shifted slightly, crossing his legs casually and hoping he could mask the hard evidence of his interest as they stood contemplating each other by the sink.
“Joy?” he prompted as she managed to look everywhere around the kitchen but at him.
She stepped away from the counter briskly, wiping her hands on a towel even though they hadn’t actually done any of the dishes. Her expression and her smile were overly bright.
“Hey, thanks for the manicotti. Maybe you should take some home? It’s a lot of food for one person.”
Suddenly he wasn’t aroused, but plenty confused.
“Am I being dismissed then?”
He knew he sounded ticked off and regretted it as he saw the flare of panic in her gaze. She set her hands on her hips, facing him.
“Listen, I don’t want you getting the wrong idea—and I think you were.”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “What wrong idea would that be?”
He didn’t say another word and watched her wrestle with her own discomfort, trying to answer his question without answering it. She mumbled something and he leaned in. “Excuse me? Didn’t quite catch that.”