Page 78 of The Best Shot

“Hm.”

“I don’t want you to go on any more blind dates.”

His hand stilled.

A pause.

Then, low and rough with sleep, “Okay.”

I closed my eyes.

And somewhere between the last shift of the sheets and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat under my ear, we fell asleep.

23

“SHE’S WATCHING US.”

HALE

Isurfaced slow, dragged up by dawn leaking through the curtains and the uneasy feeling of being awake before I meant to be.

The room felt different before I opened my eyes, cooler and quieter than it should’ve been. I reached across the sheets on instinct.

Empty.

The hollow hit quick, familiar enough to settle in my chest before I could shake it.

The last time I’d spent the night in a bed with Yasmine, she’d snuck out before I woke up. I’d told myself it didn’t matter.

I was wrong about that.

Irritation flared—a tight, ugly spike of it.

Because what the fuck.

I stared at the ceiling, jaw tight.

I knew this drill. Lie there. Feel stupid. Tell myself it was fine because nobody had said anything different. I could run that sequence in my sleep.

But last night hadn’t felt like that.

The memory came back without my permission. Not the sex, the part before that. Watching her work, lying there while she put me where she wanted and liking that she felt she could. Her behind that camera, catching things I hadn’t meant to show.

Then after, her cheek on my chest and her weight across my ribs. The way she’d said she didn’t want me going on any more blind dates like she meant it. The way I said okay because I meant it too.

So again, what the fuck.

I rolled, grabbed my phone off the nightstand. 6:52 a.m. No messages.

I’m a light sleeper. Always have been. The mattress lifts, I wake. Same for a zipper, a phone screen lighting up, a door eased shut by somebody trying not to get caught leaving.

So what did it mean that I hadn’t woken this time?

We weren’t doing this again. I started a text. Got three words in and deleted it. Whatever I had to say to her needed to be said to her face.

I got up. Sweatpants. Keys off the nightstand out of habit. Down the stairs to the side door. My hand was on the handle when I stopped.

Her camera bag was on the kitchen counter, zipper half open, the Nikon still inside. I didn’t see her shoes, but Yasmine wouldn’t have left her camera behind.