Chapter 18 – Tessa
Chapter Eighteen
Tessa
Waffles perks up from his pillow fort the second we walk into the suite.
I kick off my heels. “I don’t know how people do that every weekend,” I mutter. “My smile’s permanently damaged.”
Rowan doesn’t answer. He just watches me from near the door.
I push a hand through my hair. “You know—smiling? That thing normal people do when they’re pretending to enjoy themselves?”
He shrugs off his blazer. “Smiling is for the insecure and the underpaid. I’m neither.”
“Fascinating,” I say, dropping onto the chaise and letting my head fall back.
He moves across the room, slower than usual. His shoulders are tight, his jaw set. There are faint shadows under his eyes. I shouldn’t notice that, but I do.
“You’ve got that edge again,” I say quietly. “The one that shows up when you’re exhausted.”
He doesn’t look at me. Just goes to the minibar, grabs two glasses, and fills them.
“I’m fine,” he says.
“You talked to more people than I did,” I tell him. “That’s practically a medical event for you.”
He hands me one of the glasses without looking up. “I’m always tired.”
Our fingers brush when I take it. Neither of us moves. Neither of us acknowledges it.
Waffles circles once at my feet and settles with a sigh. I glance toward the single king bed.
“Still planning to take the floor?” Rowan asks, setting his glass on the nightstand.
I look up at him. “Still planning to take the bed?”
“I’m not taking anything,” he says. “You can have the left side.”
My mouth opens, then closes. “The left side?”
He doesn’t answer. Just lifts a brow.
I stare at him for another second, trying to figure out what game he’s playing—or if this is the part where we stop pretending nothing’s shifted between us.
“You do realize the problem, right?” I ask, gesturing between us. “Two exes. One bed. One very confused dog.”
“You used to sleep beside me all the time,” he says flatly. “I don’t remember you objecting then.”
“Yeah, well, back then, I wasn’t trying to avoid accidentally elbowing you in the ribs every time I rolled over.”
“I’m not that fragile.”
I narrow my eyes. “And I’m not that nostalgic.”
Rowan’s look is dry. Unreadable. “You’re the one making it weird.”
“I’m the one—? You blackmailed me into coming this weekend.”
He doesn’t blink. “Maybe next time, you’ll think twice before committing a felony.”
Ugh, he’s insufferable.
I push off the chair with a dramatic sigh. “I’m taking a shower. Try not to be an asshole while I’m gone.”
He lifts a brow. “No promises.”
I flip him off over my shoulder and head to the bathroom, half-hoping the water pressure blasts the stress out of my skull.
Twenty minutes later, I come back freshly scrubbed, wrapped in what’s left of my dignity.
And immediately lose it.
Because Rowan’s asleep.
On the bed.
Shirtless.
He’s lying back against the headboard, one arm tucked behind his head, the other resting loosely beside Waffles—who is curled up on his chest, snoozing.
And Rowan… Rowan looks peaceful.
No scowl. No tension. Just quiet and still and so outrageously hot that my brain short-circuits.
For a terrifying number of seconds, I just stand there, towel in hand, hair damp, staring. I’ve lost all sense of self-preservation.
He looks soft in sleep. Unbothered.
And then—
His eyes crack open.
Just a sliver. Just enough to find me rooted to the floor.
“Stop staring,” he mumbles, voice rough with sleep. “Get into bed.”
My soul immediately evacuates my body.
“I-I wasn’t— I was just grabbing the dog,” I stammer, diving forward and scooping Waffles into my arms.
Rowan doesn’t move. Just exhales, lids already drifting closed again. “Whitmore.”
“What?” My voice is far too high.
“The floor is uncomfortable.”
“Perfect,” I squeak, scurrying away. “I love uncomfortable floors. I’m a big fan, really.”
I drop onto the floor, dragging Waffles with me and yanking the nearest blanket over my head in one frantic motion.
This is fine. I’m fine.
I’m just a girl, lying on the carpet, aggressively pretending she wasn’t just caught ogling the human that she may or may not have missed terribly.
Totally normal.
Absolutely fine.
* * *
I’m not asleep.
I’m just horizontal. Emotionally flatlined.
The floor is surprisingly comfortable, if you’re too proud to admit defeat. Waffles is curled against my stomach, breathing slow and steady, his one good eye closed in peace. I nestle my fingers into the soft fur behind his ears.
I tell myself I’m fine.
That I can totally sleep on the floor.
That this itchy throw blanket and my poorly disguised anxiety are enough to carry me through the night.
But my body says otherwise. My hip aches. My neck is already plotting its revenge. And even though I have two pillows and the moral high ground, my limbs are cold, and my spine is sending me hate mail.
But I hold the line.
I stay still.
I stay stubborn.
Until—
I hear him huff.
Then, low and exasperated: “For fuck’s sake.”
A shadow falls over me.
Then hands. Large, warm, and very much not mine.
“Hey—” I start to protest, but I’m already being lifted. Arms under my knees. One arm around my back. My cheek lands against something infuriatingly firm.
“This isn’t happening,” I say as his arms tighten around me. “You’re not carrying me to bed.”
“I’m doing exactly that.”
“You’re going to regret this.”
“Probably. But I’ll be able to sleep.”
“This is so wildly inappropriate.”
“So is sleeping on the floor.”
His grip is strong and annoyingly competent.
Waffles, still half-asleep on the rug, lets out the softest offended huff as I’m carried away. “I was snuggling him,” I whisper-shout as Rowan sets me down on the bed.
“He’ll recover.”
“I won’t.”
“You will.”
He tugs the comforter over me. Then pauses. Just for a second. Eyes flicking over my face.
Something too soft to trust shifts in his expression.
“Go to sleep, Whitmore,” he says, but his voice lacks its usual edge.
I roll onto my side dramatically and glare at the wall. “You’re the worst.”
“I’ve been called worse by better,” he says, already walking back toward the other side of the bed.
Waffles climbs up and settles next to me with the resigned huff of a dog who has witnessed too much and slept through half of it.
The lights click off.
Rowan lies down.
We don’t speak again.
But I don’t fall asleep for a long time.
Because the bed is warm.
And his presence fills the room.
* * *
I wake up to heat. Heat that feels alive. It’s pressed against my back, sliding under my arm, wrapping around my leg. For a second, I’m too sleepy to understand why my heart is already racing.
Then I realize. The heat is Rowan.
He’s behind me, his body curved perfectly around mine.
His arm is firm across my waist, holding me close but not tight, just enough that I can feel the steady rise and fall of his chest against my back.
His skin is bare, warm, and smooth, and his breath grazes the back of my neck every time he exhales.
My whole body goes still.
I try to think, but all I can do is feel.
The solid weight of his arm. The slow rhythm of his breathing.
The quiet strength of his body pressed against mine.
It’s overwhelming in a way that isn’t panic.
It’s something else. Something that makes my pulse stumble and my stomach twist, because it feels safe and dangerous at the same time.
The scent of him lingers in the air—clean, faintly sharp, familiar. My head tells me to pull away, but the rest of me wants to lean back until every inch of space between us disappears.
Waffles snorts at the foot of the bed, and the sound jolts me back to reality. I should move. I need to move. I can’t lie here pretending this means nothing when every part of me knows exactly what it means.
Still, I don’t move right away. I let myself have a few seconds to breathe in the warmth, to feel the way his hand rests against my stomach, to remember what it used to be like before everything between us fell apart.
Back when mornings like this were normal.
Back when he was mine, and I didn’t have to pretend it didn’t matter.
My chest tightens. It’s too much.
I start to shift, slowly easing out of his hold, but his fingers flex against my skin in his sleep, a soft reflex that pulls me right back where I started. His breath catches, low and rough, and then he murmurs something quiet against my hair, too soft to make out.
The sound wrecks me a little.
I close my eyes, holding still until he settles again. Then I take a slow, careful breath and slide free, my heart hammering so hard it feels like he might hear it. My feet hit the floor, soft against the carpet, and I force myself not to look back.
But I do.
He’s still asleep, one arm stretched where I was a moment ago, his expression unguarded and peaceful. Without the sharpness he wears, he looks heartbreakingly human.
And I shouldn’t love that. I shouldn’t feel this ache in my chest or this pull under my ribs. But I do.
I grab my toiletry bag and head for the bathroom, whispering to myself as I go, “Not a big deal. Just... a slip. Just a mistake.”
The words feel empty, and I don’t believe a single one.
Inside the bathroom, I close the door and lean against it, pressing my palms flat against the wood until my heart slows. It doesn’t stop the warmth still clinging to my skin or the truth I don’t want to name.
For the first time in a long time, I felt wanted. And worse, I felt at home.
Dammit.
I lean against the counter. “Why did he have to smell that good?”
The bathroom mirror is too honest.
I glare at it anyway, clutching my toothbrush. My hair looks chaotic. There’s a red mark on my cheek from the pillow—or Rowan’s bicep, which I accidentally used as a face rest for what was apparently an entire REM cycle.
I splash water on my face and remind myself that this is fine. People wake up entangled with their emotionally unavailable fake boyfriends all the time. This is just a very niche form of trauma bonding.
Nothing to see here.
I slather on moisturizer, hoping it’ll fix the part of me that momentarily liked waking up in his arms.
And then, I hear it.
The door handle jiggles. Once. Twice.
I shriek. “Occupied!”
A pause.
Then, from the other side of the door, his voice—gravel-low and entirely too smug for this early in the morning.
“I need to take a piss.”
I yank down a bathrobe and tie it tight around my body.
“How charming,” I snap. “Right up there with waking up to find your face buried in my shoulder.”
“I was asleep.” His tone is flat.
“You nuzzled, Rowan. Nuzzled. That’s an active verb.”
“I was still asleep.”
“You made a noise.” My voice pitches slightly higher, because now I’m replaying it. The soft, content exhale. The whole cozy, domestic nightmare of it.
He sighs, long and put-upon.
“Do you need the bathroom for another hour, or just until your pride finishes hyperventilating?”
My mouth opens. Shuts.
Because the worst part is, he’s calm. Casual. Like waking up entangled with me wasn’t a crisis. Like it didn’t mean anything.
And maybe it didn’t.
Maybe I’m the only one still panicking about the fact that, for five blissfully unaware minutes, I didn’t hate it.
“Don’t talk to me like I’m being dramatic.”
“Then don’t be dramatic.”
“I woke up in a full cuddle cocoon!”
“And you survived.”
I open the door mid-scowl, prepared to keep arguing—and instantly regret it.
Because Rowan King is standing there. Barefoot. Shirtless. With his hair still a little messy and a towel slung casually around his neck.
But there’s something else. A tightness around his eyes. A tension in his jaw that wasn’t there last night. Like maybe waking up wrapped around me wasn’t as casual for him as he’s pretending.
I blink.
He raises an eyebrow. “Are you done staring?”
“No,” I blurt.
His mouth twitches.
I shove past him. “I hate you.”
“Noted.”
I retreat to the edge of the bed, drop into a dramatic sprawl, and pretend I’m not deeply, dangerously aware of the mattress indentation beside me. It’s still warm.
Which is rude, honestly. The least he could do is take his infuriating body heat with him when he leaves.
From the bathroom, I hear the water start up.
Shower.
Right. Of course. Because he has the nerve to be shirtless and clean while I sit here marinating in confusion and the smell of lavender dog shampoo.
I flop onto my back and stare at the ceiling. My arm brushes the pillow he slept on. It smells like him.
Also rude.
Steam rolls out under the crack in the bathroom door, and I squeeze my eyes shut.
Do not picture it.
I picture it.
Worse: I remember it.
The way he used to towel off casually, like being half-naked in front of me wasn’t a big deal. The way water would bead on his collarbone. The way my knees would forget how to knee.
The water shuts off.
I bolt upright. Morally, if not legally criminal thoughts.
A few minutes later, Rowan pads into the room, hair damp, towel slung around his waist, finally pulling on a T-shirt.
He barely glances at me—just at the clock—then grabs his phone from the dresser.
Completely unaffected.
Meanwhile, I’m in full emotional cardiac arrest on the duvet, pretending I’m not trying to remember if I shaved both legs evenly yesterday.
“We’re expected at breakfast in twenty.”
“Define expected.”
“Expected, as in I will not carry you there, and I don’t want to have to explain why my girlfriend is still recovering from a light snuggle.
” His tone is all business now, but I catch the way his fingers drum once against his thigh.
Nervous habit he thinks I’ve forgotten. “The partners will be watching.”
“I was vulnerably horizontal. There’s a difference.”
“You drooled on me.”
I gasp. “I did not.”
“You did,” he says flatly. “And you still talk in your sleep.”
Mortified, I stare at him. “What did I say?”
He pauses. For just a beat too long. “Something about lemon tart.”
“That sounds on brand.”
“It does.”
I groan into a pillow while Waffles climbs up beside me and immediately steps on my face. Rowan chuckles—chuckles, the monster—and then says, “Ten minutes, Whitmore.”
I glare at his retreating back, then at Waffles.
He just yawns.
I am in hell.
But a tiny part of me—
The part that melted into him without thinking, the part that liked waking up warm and held—
That part?
Isn’t so sure.
And that’s the real problem.