“How was it?”
“Perfect,” I say, rolling my shoulders. “Feels good to wash off the day.”
The bedroom has cooled down, thanks to the AC. It makes me sleepy, so I dry myself off fast, and pull on some boxer briefs and a fresh shirt.
The bed is practically calling my name. The moment I slide under the sheets, I let out a breath that feels like the longest one I’ve taken all day.
Fuck, these sheets, they feelinsanelygood. Soft, breathable, perfectly cool against my skin.
I’d bet money he spent at least a full week obsessing over which ones to buy. Probably got them from some fancy Scandinavian company no one knows how to pronounce. There’s no way you’d find this kind of quality on the island.
I mean, no offense to the Emerald Resort, but they’ve got nothing on this. And let me tell you, I’ve spent my fair share of time in five star hotels.
I scroll through my phone. Joanie sent another batch of messages, stage photos from god-knows-where. I try to place the venue, but nothing clicks. Doesn’t matter. She looks alive, and I love that.
I send her a string of hearts before tossing my phone onto the bedside table.
My eyelids are already closed when Yosh enters the room, his footsteps soft as he tiptoes around the bed, completely unaware I’ve been forcing myself to stay awake.
He stops only inches away. I can feel him staring, probably deciding whether my aura needs fixing. Then he tugs the blankets higher over my shoulders. I can't stop pretending now.
Three steps to the rattan cupboard, the careful scrape of a brush through wet hair.
I open my eyes a sliver and I’m able to watch him in the reflection of the mirror.
He’s only wearing boxers, and I’m taking in every detail of those incredible, perfectly shaped glutes.
Damn, I feel like a creep. Lying here pretending to be asleep, just to secretly admire every part of him.
It’s not just his body that leaves me thirsty as fuck. It’s the ink that gets me too.
That serpent on his back is a fucking masterpiece, detailed with symbolic patterns that surely mean something, but I’m left guessing.
My eyes linger on the artwork until I notice a pattern along his left shoulder. Faint dimples, shallow cuts, burned patches of skin.
Scars.
I follow them down his chest. I hadn’t noticed them before. Now I can’t unsee them. They’re everywhere on his upper torso.
Shit.
They have to be from Afghanistan.
He didn’t want to get into it, that much was obvious.
So I let it go.
But seeing this…it hits hard. I can see the survival, the pain he’s been through.
I hate myself for it, because when I shared the darkest day of my life with him, he didn’t look at or treat me any differently. I owe him that. He deserves better from me.
And to do that, I say the most ridiculous, thoughtless thing I can think of.
“Your hair looks beautiful. It’s always so fucking shiny.”
His lips twitch into something that looks like amusement.
Smooth McKenna. Really subtle. Like I’m pretending not to see the scars right next to that silky hair.
