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I hear Archer moving around over my shoulder, then the crunch of a metal scoop in a bucket of ice. Gentle waves crash against the shore, but I turn from that beauty and twist my neck instead to find my husband, sun-kissed and deliciously tanned. His chest is broad, and his hips, narrow. His abdominal muscles make their way into a V that I take great pleasure in tasting, touching, sliding my tongue along whenever the opportunity arises. But he wears shorts with silly cats covering them, so I can’t look at him and take him seriously.
Instead of lusting for the man, I giggle. “You look so stupid in those shorts.”
“Stop being mean.” With a devious smirk, he picks up a cocktail glass in each hand and circles to perch on the lounge chair beside mine. He sits on the side so his knees stop between us, but when I reach out to take my drink, he holds it captive and leans in to take my lips instead.
He smells of cologne. And sweat. And sex.
And me.
“It’s just you and me here.” His coarse stubble rubs on my chin, but his tongue darts out to sweep along mine. And that… is better than any alcohol I’ve ever tasted. “You look fuckable in that bikini, by the way.” Pulling back with a twinkle in his eyes, he relinquishes the glass and allows his gaze to scan my body. “Makes me wanna use you up and make it hurt a little.”
“Hurt who?” I use my stomach muscles to crunch higher so I can sip my fruity drink without spilling on myself, then I drop back again and sigh. “You or me?”
“You.” Standing again, he moves out of the gap between our chairs, then kicks his closer to mine before dropping down and essentially lying hip to hip beside me. “Kinda wanna demoralize you and make you scream.”
A pleasurable hum vibrates in the back of my throat as I sip. “Animal.”
“Besotted.” He links his fingers with mine and strokes my wrist with the pad of his thumb. “So fucking in love with you, it makes me sick.”
I rest my head back and close my eyes. But I snigger, because I can relate. “How long until we have to go back to the real world?”
Setting his glass aside and turning to his hip, Archer leans into my space and presses his lips to my neck. “Not until you’re ready, Mayet. We can stay here in paradise until you’re ready to wake up.”
“Mmm.” I tilt my head back and give him space to taste. To touch. To bite and salve. “I wanna stay here forever.”
ARCHER
Surgery goes on for hours. And hours. So many fucking hours, I swear I might lose my mind with worry.
I’m shepherded into a waiting room once the staff in the emergency department grow tired of me demanding answers, and though Tim and Aubree follow—and soon after, Fletch and Fifi—I remain sitting on my own, my ass numbing from the hard plastic chair, and my heart hardening as my best friend keeps his space. As he hangs with Seraphina and says nothing.
Not to me. Not to her. Not to anyone except his phone when it buzzes with his nanny’s name.
He doesn’t ask questions. He doesn’t beg for information the way I do. He doesn’t make himself sick with worry.
He just… sits. Bored. Uncaring.
And when the television in the corner alternates reporting on the Copeland First National hostage situation, and then Laramie Fentone’s still unsolved murder, tension weaves heavily through the room until it might choke me.
Every time Tiffany Hewitt speaks of Parker Slade,the dangerous gunman loose in the city, Fletch sits forward and watches with keen interest. But when she speaks of Marina Georgiana’s murder, or Laramie Fentone’s, he slumps back again and groans.
Like it’s all so fucking taxing for him. Like he’s just so mad and exhausted, knowing the killer for both, but up to this point in time, having made zero arrests.
“How much longer do you think this is gonna take?” Seraphina’s voice is hoarse and crackling, but she turns in her seat and looks to Aubree, as though her medical degree is enough to ensure answers. “It’s been three hours.”
“I don’t know.” Aubree’s eyes burn a painful red. Swollen and sore. But when Tim slips his arm over her shoulders and tugs her into the gap against his ribs, she leans back and breathes. She brings her feet to the chair, hugs her knees, and she rests. “I don’t know what they might’ve found once they cut in.”
“Well… how long does a normal shoulder reconstruction take?” Fifi murmurs. “This would be like that, right? So maybe we could get a general idea that way.”
“Probably two hours.” Aubree draws a deep breath and exhales on a sigh. “At the most.”
“But it’s been three. Aubree!” She reaches out and smacks her colleague’s leg to force her eyes open. “It’s already been longer than that.”
“Yeah.” Aubree reaches down and fingers the anklet circling her leg. “I know how long it’s been.”
“But I don—”
“Can you just shut the fuck up?” Turning my glare to Fifi, I grit out, “Shut up. Stop asking her questions. She doesn’t know the answers, and you’re not helping by yammering on.”
