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43
Kenzi
I don’t remember falling asleep.
But when I wake up, I’m completely disoriented.
My brain peels back days: it’s anticipating gray London skies, the nasty buzz of my alarm clock, and the chick-chick of the crappy radiator in our flat.
Instead, I hear the quiet lapping of water against the hull of the boat. The low groan as the rubber bumper grinds against the dock. Donovan’s soft snores in my ear.
I wouldn’t believe last night happened, except I’m wedged between two furnace-hot men. Both naked. Both cradling me. Donovan behind, his arm tucked around my middle. Jason has his arm around me as well, his hand resting at my hip.
Is this real? It feels like a fantasy, a fever dream I made up.
As though to test my surroundings, I reach over and gently rest my hand on Jason’s face. I slip my fingers through his dark hair, drawing it back. He’s real. Very real.
His eyelids flutter, and those dazzling blues land on me. Slowly, a smile crawls across his face.
“Morning, Trouble,” he murmurs.
“Morning,” I whisper.
“How’d you sleep?”
“Like the dead.”
“Me too.” We linger in this, the soft warmth of the morning, and his thumb rubs lazy patterns across my hip. “Last night was amazing,” he adds.
“Yeah. It was.”
There’s so much sincerity in this moment that I make the decision, all at once. I’m going to tell him. Whatever Jason was, whoever his family is—it doesn’t matter.
This man, who looks at me with so much adoration even in the harsh morning light…he’s a good guy. He deserves to know the truth.
I bite my bottom lip. “There’s…something we should talk about.”
He knits his eyebrows. “What’s that?”
“Uh…”
The words almost come out. Almost. But I’m interrupted by the low buzz of someone’s phone going off.
“Is that me?” I ask, and Jason shrugs, so I launch myself over him. I bend over the side of the bed. There’s a sea of clothes scattered on the floor, and I hunt around until I find the culprit—my phone, hiding in my jacket pocket. I glance at the caller ID, and immediately my heart leaps into my throat.
It’s Mr. King.
I fumble out of bed (and get a couple of groans from Jason as I climb over him and knee him in the stomach on accident). I yank my pants on my hips and pull my phone to my ear, rushing out of the bedroom and closing the door behind me. There’s not a lot of privacy on a boat, and leaving the bedroom suddenly feels like a bad idea because I’m shirtless and freezing. My nipples are painful knots on my chest. I ignore it to put my phone to my ear and clear my throat.
“Kenzi Stratton,” I say, trying to sound casual, but my teeth are chattering.
“Otto has an appointment at noon,” Mr. King says—no bullshit, getting straight to the point. “Don’t be late.”
I release a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. I’m so relieved, I have to sit down before I fall down, and I flop onto the bench hard.
He’s going to treat my son. Otto is going to get the help he needs.
“That’s…great. That’s really great to hear.”
