Chapter 13
Iwoke to the pale, quiet light of early morning filtering through my bedroom window.
I blinked, disoriented.The last thing I remembered was the heavy, solid weight of Henry against me on the couch, the smell of sex and sweat and his ruined cologne clinging to the air.I remembered closing my eyes, wrapped in that impossible warmth, hearing his rough whisper against my skin: “Sleep.I’m not going anywhere.”
But I was in my bed.Alone.
A flicker of panic, cold and familiar, sparked in my chest.Had I dreamed it?Had he left after I’d fallen asleep?The emptiness of the bed felt like a verdict.
Then I moved, and my body announced itself with a chorus of pleasant aches.The stretch in my thighs, the tender throb between my legs, the faint sting on my collarbone.I lifted a hand to touch the spot, my fingers finding a raised, tender mark.A bruise in the shape of his mouth.
It was real.All of it.
The smell of coffee hit me then—rich, dark, and utterly out of place in my apartment, where my coffee maker was a neglected relic I used twice a season.
I pushed myself up on my elbows.The bedroom door was ajar.From the kitchen came the soft, domestic sounds of life: the clink of a mug, the scrape of a chair, the low hum of the refrigerator.
I swung my legs out of bed and froze.I was wearing a t-shirt.Soft, expensive cotton, far too large, the sleeves falling past my elbows.It smelled like cedar and clean linen.Henry’s shirt.
A warm, dizzying wave of feeling washed over me.He’d put me to bed.He’d given me his own shirt to sleep in.
Pulling the fabric to my nose, I breathed in his scent, a stupid, helpless smile tugging at my mouth before I could stop it.
I padded barefoot out of the bedroom, the cool hardwood floor a shock.I stopped in the doorway to the living area.
The scene was surreal.Morning light spilled across the wreckage of last night—the empty beer bottles still littering the coffee table, my torn shirt lying discarded on the floor like a casualty of war.And in the middle of it, sitting at my rickety kitchen table as if it were a boardroom conference suite, was Henry Emerson.
He was on his phone, scrolling with one thumb, a steaming mug of coffee in front of him.He was dressed in his trousers from last night and a plain white undershirt, his feet bare.His hair was tousled, his jaw shadowed with stubble.He looked...rumpled.Human.Devastatingly handsome.
He looked up as I entered.His steel-gray eyes tracked me across the room, but the usual calculating assessment was gone.In its place was something quieter, more observant.
“You’re awake,” he said, his voice a low, morning-rough baritone.He set his phone face-down on the table.“How do you feel?”
“Confused,” I admitted, my voice still sleep-soft.I leaned against the doorframe, suddenly shy.“I thought I fell asleep on the couch.”
“You did.”His mouth curved, not quite a smile, but something close.“You were dead weight.And snoring.”
“I do not snore.”
