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EMERSON
In the end, Daphne won’t—or can’t—wake up. Will tucks a blanket over her while she’s cradled in my arms and I carry her with me when I see them to the door.
“It was good,” Sin says, his hand on the knob. “Coming for drinks.”
“Don’t get used to private showings.”
He laughs. “I won’t. But I mean it.”
“It was good,” I agree. And I’m surprised to find that I mean it, too.
“You guys are fucked up,” Will says.
“I’ll text you,” I call after him as he goes into the night.
He waves his hand above his head. Whatever. He’s a stubborn asshole. He enjoyed the hell out of himself tonight.
I’m bone-tired and sated, but I take Daphne into the shower nonetheless. She’s half asleep and murmurs soft nothings through the whole process. When she is, at last, dressed and dry, I lay her in the bed. She reaches for me with one hand and won’t settle until I let her curl up on my chest.
Nothing.
Nothing is better than this.
I wake up early like always, the gray light of early morning filtering through the windows. Daphne breathes deeply at my side. She’s taken half my pillow. Her body is relaxed. Truly at rest. She sleeps easily here, which is another pleasant surprise. My little painter isn’t bracing for anything to happen to her.
I run my fingers through her hair.
She doesn’t stir.
I feel so fucking good.
I don’t want to waste a minute of this on sleep.
Last night was a sea change for the three of us. It had to be Daphne, I think. I’ve never had anything so important to show them. I’ve never wanted that before. Perhaps there’s some part of me that wanted their approval. That still does.
And how could I not want them to see? She’s gorgeous. Her dark hair on the white pillowcase. The gentle curves of her body. The pink lips to match her flushed cheeks. She senses her own safety, even when she’s sleeping. Daphne feels as good as I do, and she’s still dreaming.
She must feel me watching, because her breathing changes. Daphne stretches a little, then wriggles closer, into my heat. She pushes her back into me and pulls the blanket tight. “It’s early.”
Her voice is as warm as her body. Sleepy and satisfied. It’s the best sound I’ve ever heard.
“I’m going to surf.” I tuck her hair over her ear and brush a kiss to her cheek. The idea occurs as I register the softness of her skin. “Come with me.”
“No.” Daphne laughs. “It’s winter. I’m not going in the water.”
“Come outside with me. Even prisoners get yard time.”
She laughs harder at the joke, but it’s true. Even real convicts get time in the sun. That’s important for most people, but especially for Daphne. An artist needs contact with the outer world. The view from the studio is one thing. For now, she should feel the wind in her face. There’s something about standing on the shore.
Daphne understands that. After all, she came to the beach at my request. She could have used a reference photo, but she came in person.
She lets me run my hand over her shoulder and her arm for a minute before she rolls over onto her back. “Really?”
“Yes. Bring your sketchbook.”
Her brow wrinkles. “I don’t have a sketchbook.”
“Little painter. You think I built you an art studio with no sketchbooks?”
