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And more than just seen, I feel visible for the first time in maybe forever—but it isn’t scary. Being with James is like standing in the softest, most flattering spotlight. “I like being seen by you.”
“So tell me something.”
I snuggle into the crook of his arm. “Something about what?”
“About you.” His brows go up in a question. “I don’t even know where you live.”
“I live in a condo with my adorable landlords, Annabeth and Peyton, off South Jackson.” With a dramatic pout, I add, “They’re in Hawaii right now on a belated honeymoon.”
He squints. “You’re renting a single bedroom?”
The vague, familiar shame blows a shadow across my mood, and I nod. “Where do you live?”
“I’ve got a studio down near where the South Park Loop meets 191.”
I map the distance in my head. It would only take about ten minutes for me to get there.
“Is that close to you?” he asks.
“Very.”
He growls into a kiss. But with the reminder that he’s new to the area, it occurs to me that it probably isn’t easy to start over—especially not when he’s working such long hours. “Have you made any friends in Jackson?” I ask.
“One of my neighbors is a very loud man who comes home around midnight and unwinds to the dulcet sounds of death metal.”
I wince. “Oof.”
“My neighbor on the other side, Edie, is a ninety-year-old woman who knocks on my door with a cane to ask whether I need groceries. So, she’s pretty cool.”
“You should be getting her groceries.”
“Right?” He smiles, fidgeting with a strand of my hair. “Most of my friends are back on the East Coast, but even they’ve scattered throughout New England.” Shrugging, he says with relaxed assurance, “I’ll find my people at some point. Right now the priority has been getting my work life back on track.”
I stare at his mouth, thinking on these words. We’re both alone, and for so long I insisted that wasn’t the same thing as being lonely. Now I’m not so sure.
“What are you thinking about?” he asks.
“I’ve lived around Jackson my entire life and you’ve just moved there, but we both need to find our people.”
With a knowing smile, James kisses me again, but this time he lingers, and it deepens, heating. I love the firm press of his lips, the quiet sounds he can’t seem to repress.
Against my mouth, he asks, “Is the lady satisfied?”
I run my finger down his chin, throat, chest and reach beneath the sheets, gently scratching his stomach. “The lady was satisfied …”
He growls, dragging his teeth over my jaw, and climbs back over me. “It appears I have more work to do.”
Giggling, I throw the sheets up and over our heads. Room service, rock-paper-scissors, and robes can wait.
When I wake up, I know it’s really early. Bird calls haven’t been drowned out by the hum of traffic. The sky still feels like a secret—deep blue-black but illuminated, like a light shining through fabric. Under the covers it’s warm, and my entire body has that heavy, weighted feeling where I can get lost in the sensation of being completely still.
I love this feeling, love becoming aware of different parts of my body, not just my hands. The pillowcase is smooth against my cheek. I slip my feet to a cooler section of the sheets and press back into the warm, naked body behind me.
His breathing is even, but his hand on my stomach flexes when I move, pulling me into him. I’m not sure he’s awake. On a scale of fine to nonverbal for the rest of the tour, how weird is it going to be between us now that we’ve had sex?
At the risk of waking up my body and getting my hands twisting and turning, I roll over to face him and find his eyes open, carefully watching me.
“Hi.”
He smiles. “Hi.”
There’s a condom wrapper stuck to his shoulder, and I assume it’s the one he tossed onto the bed that first time. There’s another in here somewhere from the second time; that one was sweeter, quieter, with my arms and legs wound all around him.
I definitely needed the heat and energy of the first time, but I think James liked the second one better. He looked completely wrecked afterward. We skipped the room service after all, and I think we were asleep by eight—no wonder we’re awake at dawn. Now he looks sleep-rumpled and wary, like he’s not sure how I’m going to behave this morning.
“We had sex,” I say.
He nods. “Twice.”
“My first hotel sex. And second.”
A twitch of his mouth. “Congratulations.”
When he reaches up to push his hair off his forehead, I lean back and take a long look down at his naked body. As expected, instead of covering himself, he rolls to his back and tucks a hand behind his head. It’s quite a view.
