Grace
My world smelled like lavender.I stretched, my body warm and cozy inside my little cocoon. But my fingers dragged across smooth cotton, not the brushed flannel ofmysheets. And my room didn’t smell like lavender.
Where am I?
I cracked an eye open. Bright sunlight lit up the wall next to me from behind floor-to-ceiling sheer curtains. Mottled gray wall. Little twin bed.
Right. Paris. The tiny hotel we’d arrived at sometime after midnight, when I’d been so tired Garrett had offered to carry me up the stairs. Hehadoffered that, right? Or was it a dream? I let my eyes close to find that dream. What my brain found was some half-dissolved memory. My cheek on his shoulder. The rhythm of the tracks. And something else, something gentle around my fingers, like?—
Had he held my hand?
No. The hand thing was on the jet. When I’d been white-knuckling the armrest during turbulence, and he’d covered my hand with his. That had been real. This was... sleep-fog. It wasn’teven a dream I could fall back into and let that big man hold me a little longer.
I rolled over and blinked at the opposite wall, where Garrett sat at the tiniest little desk. Or it was a desk made for normal people, and my big, burly, overprotective volunteer bodyguard-type travel companion overwhelmed it. Yeah, that was it.
How long had I been out? I fumbled for my phone on the nightstand. 11:14.
I yawned with my whole body. “Is my phone on the wrong time zone, or is it really eleven?”
He didn’t look away from his laptop. “It’s really eleven.”
“Shouldn’t we already be gone?” I let out another yawn and finally opened my eyes fully. The room had two twin beds, with barely enough room between them to walk. Little nightstand, little desk, little armchair in the corner. This was a hotel to crash in, a far cry from the Four Seasons in London.
Garrett’s bed was made, the sheets pulled ridiculously tight. His feet had probably hung off the end last night. His duffel bag sat on top of it, zipped and ready. He was dressed in yet another dark long-sleeved shirt, as though it was all he owned. This one was black with a gray logo on the back I wasn’t familiar with, and was just as irritatingly sexy on him as all the others.
I sat up and stretched again for good measure, remaining in my bed. “How long have you been up?”
He tapped a ceramic mug next to him. “Long enough I had time to eat breakfast and bring you some coffee.”
“That’s what I need!”
“That was three hours ago, so it’s cold.”
The sun shining through the window strengthened my resolve not to let his supreme dourness dampen my mood. “People love their iced lattes. I’ll pretend that’s what it is.”
“It’s not exactly a latte.” He lifted the mug and reached over his bed, handing it to me. “And I grabbed you a croissant for when you got up.”
I slipped out from under the covers and accepted the mug, then sat back in my cozy nest. “Breakfast in bed. How thoughtful!”
He frowned and returned his attention to his laptop.
My morning energy could be a lot to handle, and was definitely too much for Mr. Grumpy Face. But I’d had an excellent sleep, I was inParistoday, and nobody could take either of those away from me. I took a long sip from the coffee. It wasn’t even lukewarm, but there was a hint of nuts and chocolate beneath the roasted notes. Surprisingly tasty. And he’d put stevia and some vanilla flavor into it.
Exactly how I liked it.
“I can’t believe I slept so late.” I fluffed up my pillows and leaned against the headboard. “Why didn’t you wake me?”
“You needed the sleep.” He was studying his laptop intently, leaning closer to the screen. “We’re not leaving for Jean’s for another couple of hours.”
“Fair.” I wrapped both hands around the cup, although it had long since stopped providing heat. “I feel like I wasted half the day.”
“You spent yesterday being chased through London. Sleep was what you needed.” His voice was somewhere between completely distracted and gentle. Maybe he did care, just a little bit? Or maybe I was still half-asleep and imagining things.
Like imagining him holding your hand on the train?
I took another sip of the cold coffee, and my stomach rumbled. “Can you pass me the croissant?”
“After you get up.”
