Page 1 of Dissonance

Prologue

Thea

“Come on…where are you?”

The words come out barely above a breath, urgent and hushed as I scan the carpet on my hands and knees, the cool air skimming my bare skin, one arm banded over my breasts. Behind me, the man in bed exhales a low, half-formed sound that locks every muscle in my body. I wait, pulse thudding, until the steady rhythm of his breathing returns.

He’s still asleep.

Good. Now hurry.

My bra is half-hidden beneath the bedframe, and I stretch to fish it out, fastening it with efficient fingers. Spotting my panties hooked obscenely over the lamp on the desk, I snag them before looking at the rest of the room. Clothes are scattered everywhere—careless and intimate—I just wish I didn’t have to see it laid out quite so literally at six in the morning.

Tiptoeing back to the nightstand, I reach for my glasses, and they slip from my fingers, hitting the wood with a sharp crack. I snatch them up, heart lurching, and hold my breath. Watching him with wide eyes, I finally exhale when he still doesn’t stir.

God, this was a mistake. A spectacular lapse in reckless judgement brought on by too much whiskey, too little sleep, and proximity to the only man who’s ever made self-control feel optional.

Optional is not how you land career-defining clients.

And Reign Cooper isn’t a small win.

He’s the kind of rock star you can build an empire on. The kind you don’t fumble right after signing a contract because you got distracted. And I don’t fumble. Ever. Especially not when the ink on my biggest contract has barely dried.

The worst part? There was no occasion to blame it on this time. No gala. No after-after party. No industry event where the lights were low and the drinks were free. Just a quiet bar and nine years of history sitting between us like something neither of us had the good sense to leave alone. Until somewhere around the second or third drink, comfortable became too comfortable. And I didn’t do a thing to stop it.

Because I never do. Not with him.

Yet…the proof of my slip is sprawled across the bed behind me. Sheet slung low on his hips, muscled back bare, Lockie sleeps soundly.

I’m halfway across the room, collecting the rest of my clothes, when his Scottish drawl stops me.

“If you’re trying to sneak out, you’re not doing a very good job, lass.”

I close my eyes. Lass. The word slides over my skin like the first pull of whiskey, his sleep-laden voice rough around the edges, that sexy-as-sin brogue making goosebumps scatter across my flesh. I hate that it does that. How automatic it is—no warning, no pause, just him and me already falling into line.

“I’m not sneaking out,” I say as I snatch my blouse from the door handle and press it to my chest before making the catastrophic mistake of looking back at him.

The curtains do nothing to block the light spilling through the gap between them, catching the edges of the room, catching him. Rolled onto his back, dark eyes alert and watching with amusement. He’s older than the first time I saw him like this. Broader through the shoulders, lines at the corners of his eyes that weren’t there before. Not softer—never that—but steadier. Like time has carved him into something more deliberate. More devastating. A Highland warrior straight out of a Celtic myth dropped into a hotel bed somewhere outside Toronto.

“So,” he says, his gaze dropping to where I’m clutching my blouse against me, the thin lace of my bra doing very little to hide what his attention is doing to me. “You’re not planning to put that on before I can take it off again, are you?”

“That’s not— We’re not—” I stop myself and inhale, forcing control back into my voice. “We’re not doing it again.”

His mouth curves, slow and unnerving; the way I’ll never not associate with Lachlan James. He shifts, and the sheet practically melts against him, stretching over his thighs, leaving nothing to the imagination. And my mind unhelpfully supplies exactly what that thin barrier’s hiding.

“Pity.” Leaning back against the headboard, his hands lace behind his head, biceps flexing with the movement. “You were very clear about wanting it again and again last night.”

“Your confidence is exhausting,” I reply coolly, even as my pulse skitters and heat prickles beneath my skin. “Whatever you think happened—”

“—happened,” he finishes. The mattress dips as he sits up. I feel it more than hear it, the air shifting when he moves, pulling tight between us. “You’d be more convincing if you weren’t shaking.”

I tighten my grip on my blouse, irritation burning hotter than embarrassment. I hate that he does this, that he manages to erode the control I rely on so effortlessly without even trying.

“I guess drunk-me has lower standards than sober-me,” I quip, glancing around for my pants.

That earns a real laugh, deep and unaffected. I whip my head to look at him, immediately wishing I hadn’t. He stands in one smooth motion, sheet sliding away, utterly unbothered by his nakedness, shoulders still marked faintly where my nails dragged last night. He crosses the room without rushing—just a man entirely comfortable in his skin—stopping close enough that heat rolls off him, settling against the front of my bare thighs.

“Lachlan,” I warn, the word thinner than I intend as his finger tilts my chin up. My pulse spikes at the contact, the intensity of his gaze locking me in place.