Chapter 23
Rory
Morgan’s thrusting and humping, his biceps bulging and straining the hem of his shirt sleeve.
His hair has fallen down over his forehead, his mouth parted, and his arms are braced.
It hits me—so suddenly it knocks the laughter right out of me—that this view is rare.
Intimate and yet not—if I were underneath him, I wouldn’t see the muscles working or the way his toes are clenched against the sheets.
And when our eyes meet, everything else fades. I can’t even hear the soft clunk of the bed frame hitting the wall anymore.
Morgan’s gaze drops to my mouth. I’m not smiling anymore, and I bite the inside of my cheeks to keep myself from doing something stupid.
He doesn’t look long, just huffs a laugh and lets his head fall between his balled-up fists.
Eer-thunk. Eer-thunk. Eer-thunk.
And then there’s a different noise. A rapid thump-thump-thump on the wall and Grandma’s voice comes through. “Knock it off, you two! I know you’re faking it.”
The thumps happen again and then I hear something clatter and Grandma curse. Morgan breaks first, laughing and collapsing into the bed.
I relax too, half burying my face into the pillow. Our gazes meet, Morgan’s eyes sparkling.
I expected him to make this game sexual first, and yet I was the one who broke. I hold my breath, wondering what the next step will be.
“Truth or dare?”
“Truth,” I whisper.
Morgan doesn’t even blink. “What happened to your parents?”
Perhaps it’s because I was expecting something to ramp up the tension inside me, so the question—invasive, personal, and serious—actually makes me relax instead of tense up.
“We were in the car,” I say. “It was late. I was asleep. And we were hit by a drunk driver. I have a scar up here.” I reach up to my scalp and finger the slight bare line, the raised skin.
“But I was on the passenger side. My dad was driving; he died on impact. My mom and little brother died in the hospital later.”
He hums and waits.
“The other guy survived. I was ten years old and—this might surprise you—I didn’t know my grandmother that well.
She and my mom didn’t get along, and then she was my only family.
Despite the distance, she came right away and sat with me in the hospital for three weeks.
She was a force of nature with the doctors and lawyers, and I was just a scared kid.
” I can feel the pressure gathering behind my eyes, so I roll onto my back, and Morgan takes it as The End.
“You’re lucky to have her,” he says.
I scoff. “Sometimes.”
He chuckles.
My turn. “What is your job? The other one.”
Morgan props his head up on his hand to see me better. “Kit has a cleaning service—two actually. One of them is the regular stuff—cleaning rentals in the area—the other is more of a party service. Two or three of us come to the house and clean shirtless.”
The side of my lip quirks up. “Didn’t I say you were a stripper?”
“We’re not stripping!” His protest is filled with laughter.
“We have themes. Cowboys, firemen, bow ties . . . we’re very popular,” he says with mock modesty.
“You have no idea how many bachelor and bachelorette parties we get, especially coming from the city.” He shrugs.
“It’s all a good time.” He tips his chin up.
“Tell me about the last person you dated.”
Apparently we’re not even pretending to play the game anymore—or maybe both of us want to pull truths out of each other.
My heart rate picks up, not only because I have to think about my ex, who I realize, looking back, was pretty awful to me. I stare up at the ceiling. “We met on Hinge. She was a hairstylist, we dated for eight months. Not that long, I guess.”
Morgan doesn’t say anything until I look over at him. If he has any reaction to me having dated a woman, I can’t tell.
“Eight months tops any relationship I’ve ever had.” He grins at me.
I roll my eyes. “I’m not even a Herevian and I know that.”
He shrugs. “I’m a bartender. In the ski season I meet a lot of women who are just passing through. And the locals—well, I’ve known everyone my whole life. And none of the women here have been The One. Why did you break up?”
I turn on my side to face him. Morgan lowers his head to the pillow and we both curl in. “I realized she was mean.” Morgan’s smile drops. “I know it’s ironic, because I’m mean. Maybe I can dish it out but I can’t take it myself.”
“I don’t think you’re mean,” he says. “Blunt, and you have a dry sense of humor. But I don’t think you’ve ever said anything mean to me.”
Probably because even I can’t kick a puppy. “Tell me about your tattoos.”
He sits up. “You just want to get me shirtless.” Morgan’s words are muffled as he strips off his shirt.
“I said tell me about them, not show me them.” My words lack any real heat to them because when I catch a view of his abs, my stomach does a little flip-flop. Maybe my voice hitches too, because Morgan chuckles.
“It’s a visual topic,” he says. He sits up, turning away from me, and points over his shoulder at the zigzagging line on his back.
It’s almost like a lightning bolt, the curves softened, and there’s a series of small black diamonds along the path, which disappears into a minimalist mountain peak.
“This is Fatal Attraction, the run at Sirens that we were on when we rescued that skier. Kit, Hunter, Silas, and I all have some homage to the lodge on our bodies.” He turns back to me, showing me the wings that spread over his pecs.
“This is also for the lodge.” He raises an arm and points at the snake. “This one I got for my mom.”
My brows draw together. “I thought . . .” I don’t know how to finish that. That they didn’t get along? Or that she wasn’t a big part of his life? Is the tattoo a reminder of good things or bad?
“I got it to remember to watch my back with her. And this quote too.” He points to the grass, where the stalks form the words “O, that way madness lies.”
“Shakespeare?”
“King Lear,” he confirms. “To remind me not to dwell on what I cannot have.”
“A mother?” I guess.
Morgan lies back down facing me. “Maternal love. She’s always favored my brother.
Always. He could do no wrong in her eyes.
I think it’s because our dad left while she was pregnant with me.
” He’s quiet for a moment. “One of my first memories was of being left home alone when I was four. They went to an amusement park without me. One of my teachers called social services once because I wasn’t bathing.
That wasn’t the last time.” His voice has taken on a tone, half begging, half defensive, as if he’s not sure I’ll believe him.
“I believe you,” I say.
He sighs and shifts to his back. “Sorry. I don’t talk about it a lot. And I hate that I feel like I have to give you examples . . . like, prove it to you.”
“I get that. I felt the same way with my sexuality, when I was dating men and just starting to realize I was interested in women too. It’s hard to tell the world something without evidence.
I overcompensated and talked way too much about my crush on Shakira for a while. How did you get through it? Therapy?”
“Are you saying I’m well-adjusted now?” There’s a hint of a tease back in his voice. “I did some therapy later, but mostly it was my friends that got me through. As I got older I practically lived at either Kit’s or Hunter’s houses.”
“You charmed your way into new families.”
He gives me a sly glance. “Like yours, my queen.”
I ignore that and ask him about another tattoo, since he’s not done explaining them all. He shows me the pine forest half-sleeve on his shoulder, a Legend of Zelda tattoo on his thigh that he got as a bet when he was eighteen.
He does not put his shirt back on.
We keep talking, our voices getting quieter. At some point, Morgan turns the bedside light back off. We whisper.
The last thing I remember is the brush of a finger against my cheek and a whispered “Good night, my queen.”
I wake up and everything is warm. Hot, even. I might be sweating. And I’m definitely not alone.
I open my eyes and blink them into focus. I can just make out the treetops on his shoulder.
The comforter is tucked right up under my chin, and I can see the edge of the bed and the nightstand. I’ve migrated across the bed. I’m not just on Morgan’s side; I’m draped over him. Belly, hips, thighs, all pressed together, my toes—the traitors—are even curled under the muscles of his calf.
I knew this would happen—plenty of past lovers have complained about my heat-seeking, ice-cold toes.
His breath is slow and steady, our bodies rising and falling together, and my throat catches when I realize we’re breathing in sync.
My head bounces on his huff of laughter. “I can feel you blinking, you know.”
I roll off in an instant, mortified that I’ve invaded his space so egregiously. God, what is wrong with me? Morgan probably thinks I’m starved for attention or something. Secretly a cuddler. I’m not.
My roll takes me all the way off the bed. I plant my feet on the floor and grab the first thing I see that even remotely resembles pants and tug them on. Princess stands in her bed and stretches, giving a great big yawn before padding over to wag her tail at me.
The blinds are drawn and there’s a soft gray light coming through the cracks. “It’s early,” I say. Even for me. “Go back to sleep.”
“Rory—” Morgan’s interrupted by the toilet flushing.
The perfect excuse. “Grandma’s up. I’m going to check on her.”
I step out the door and shut it behind me. I listen to Grandma wash her hands and then that door creaks open and she jumps.
“Rory, holy mother—you scared me.”
“Sorry,” I say. Grandma’s dressed already, soft wine-colored pants and a white T-shirt. “I heard you. Want to get some breakfast?”
To my surprise, the door behind me opens. “I was thinking we could go to the coffee shop in town. It’s just a few blocks over, if we want to walk,” Morgan says. He’s dressed in jeans and a long-sleeve shirt now, the waffly kind. It’s a burnt orange that brings out the blue in his eyes.
“I can walk a few blocks,” Grandma says.
We walk to Main Street, Princess on her leash making four of us, and sit outside. The coffee shop is cute and busy for a Tuesday morning. Grandma’s hyper-critical of everything, as usual, but she hums in pleasure when she bites into the cinnamon roll.
Morgan knows everyone in the shop. He introduces me—“This is my fiancée”—and Grandma. He’s charming, making everyone laugh, and I can’t help but think of his childhood. He didn’t get love and attention at home, but by charming all the Herevians, he found a new family.
When we get home, I have to get to work. Since I took yesterday off I have to catch up on my emails and billing, but it’s not exactly the best environment for this, because Grandma and Morgan are trying to coax Bartholomeow out of hiding.
I’m facing the back of the house, and the door is open enough that I can see Morgan and Grandma moving around.
Princess is shut in Morgan’s room, so there’s whining.
There’s also the soft crooning of Morgan’s voice, the matter-of-fact statements from Grandma—“He’ll be the one feeding you now, you better not bite that hand.
” At some point, they open a can of the good stuff and the place reeks of cat food.
Morgan is a saint to be putting up with my grandma and her ornery cat.
Eventually, Grandma wants to go home and Morgan has errands to run. He offers to drive her and she pats my shoulder and tells me not to work too hard, and she’ll see me on Sunday. I’ll be back from a job in Vermont by then and we have an appointment scheduled.
When they leave the house is quiet and I get way more productive . . . until I spy a cautious black head peek around the corner.
I ignore the cat—that’s how he likes it.
About half an hour later, something rubs against my leg. “Hey, buddy.”
“Meow.”
He jumps up onto the chair next to me and then the table. He sits, tail flicking, as he surveys his new—albeit temporary—home.
I sigh. When the six months are up, and Grandma wants to move again, I’m going to have to figure out what to do about him. About everything.
I am not looking forward to it.