Chapter 9
Sunny
Iwake to the unfamiliar sound of someone else breathing.
For a disoriented second, I tense the way I always do when something feels out of place.
Then the warmth registers and my brain takes stock.
There's a solid arm draped across my midsection and a broad chest pressed against my back.
The slow, steady rhythm of breathing stirs the hair at the nape of my neck, and chills chase down my spine.
Charlie Hayden is in my bed.
The events of last night reassemble in a rush that sends heat flooding through my entire body. His mouth on mine in the kitchen. His hands dragging me close. The way he said my name like it was the only word he needed.
I lie still as my pulse settles. The early light coming through the curtains is gray and soft, which means it's before six. My internal clock runs on winery time, and even a night that left me boneless and breathless can't override years of five o'clock mornings.
Charlie's arm tightens, snuggling me closer in his sleep. His hand is warm and heavy against my breast, his fingers pressing in, and my whole body hums in response.
I should get up, extract myself from this tangle of limbs and bedsheets, start coffee, and rebuild at least one of the walls Charlie demolished last night. That would be the smart move, the one that has kept me functional and protected.
Instead, I roll over.
Charlie's face in sleep is something I’m not prepared for.
He looks like a fallen angel, the kind of face that makes people look twice.
His dark brown hair falls across his forehead, and his jaw is dark with overnight growth.
The lines around his eyes have smoothed out.
And then there's his mouth, relaxed and slightly parted.
The things it did to me last night are going to make eye contact very difficult.
My fingers move before my brain gives permission. I trace the line of his jaw, feather-light, following the angle of it to his square chin. The stubble catches against my fingertips, and the intimacy of it hits me harder than last night did.
His eyes open. Not the groggy, confused blink of someone dragged from sleep, but a slow, deliberate opening, as if he's been lying there aware of me for longer than he let on. That hazel gaze focuses on my face, and his smile wrecks me.
"Morning, Sunshine."
His voice is lower than usual, roughened by sleep, and the sound of it vibrates through me in places that have no business responding this early. "You were awake," I accuse.
"I've been awake since you started breathing differently about ten minutes ago.
" He catches my hand against his jaw and presses his lips to my palm.
The gesture is so tender that it bypasses every remaining defense I have.
"I’ve noticed that your breathing changes when you're processing something.
It goes shallow and fast, like you're running numbers in your head. "
"How do you know that?"
"I notice everything about you, Sunny." He says it without fanfare, just a quiet truth delivered with his lips still pressed to my palm. "I felt the moment you woke up. You stiffened, then melted right back into me."
My cheeks flush. He's not wrong, and the fact that he clocked all of that through touch alone, eyes closed, makes my pulse skip.
"I wasn't going to bolt," I reply. "I was just assessing the situation."
"Assessing." His grin widens, and the playfulness I know so well surfaces through the morning softness. "And what's the verdict?"
I hold his gaze, and the honesty of this moment, lying face to face in my small bed with the gray morning light catching the gold flecks in his eyes, tears something open inside me that is both terrifying and wonderful.
"The verdict is that I'm not sorry about a single thing that happened last night. "
"Good." The word comes out low and satisfied. "Neither am I."
"Don't let it go to your head, Hayden."
He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering at my cheek. The teasing falls away from his expression, and I do the only thing that makes sense. I kiss him.
His mouth is soft, tasting like sleep and something familiar that I'm starting to associate exclusively with him. His hand slides up my back, fingers spreading wide against my bare skin, and the contact makes me shiver despite the heat of the sheets around us.
When I pull back, his pupils are dark and his breathing has changed, and the hard press of him against my stomach makes the investigation I started last night very tempting to continue.
But my stomach growls and the timing is so perfectly terrible that I press my forehead against his chest and groan.
Charlie's laugh shakes the bed. "I'll take that as a sign that breakfast comes before round two."
"There's no round two until there's breakfast and coffee." I push myself upright and swing my legs over the edge of the mattress, reaching for the t-shirt I keep draped over the bedpost. It's an old UC Davis shirt and it falls to mid-thigh when I pull it over my head.
"I like that shirt on you," Charlie comments from behind me. "Though I think mine would look better."
"It's the only clean thing within reach, and you're the reason my tank top is tangled somewhere on the floor."
"Guilty." He doesn't sound remotely sorry.
He stretches, the sheets sliding to his waist. I force myself to look away before the sight of all that gorgeous bare skin derails the entire morning.
I hear him scrounging for his clothes, and by the time I'm starting the coffee, he appears in the kitchen in jeans and nothing else, his hair mussed and his feet bare on my tile floor.
The domesticity of the image catches me off guard. Charlie Hayden, sexy and shirtless in my kitchen, leaning against the doorframe like he belongs there. This space has never had a man in it. It's mine and designed for the rhythm of one.
Having him here should feel like an invasion. But it's not intrusive at all.
"Pancakes and eggs sound good?" I ask, pulling a bowl from the cabinet. "It's my go-to."
"You don't have to cook for me."
"You fixed my sink. I fed you dinner. Breakfast is the next logical step." I crack eggs into the bowl and reach for the flour. "Besides, I'm starving."
"Same." There's a twinkle in his eye that makes my cheeks flush. "Someone kept me up past my bedtime."
"Don't look so proud of yourself." But I'm smiling, and the grin he gives me from across the counter is insufferable.
He finds the coffee mugs without asking where they are, and when the pot finishes, he pours two cups and sets mine on the counter beside me. Black.
"How do you know how I take my coffee?"
"Because I've been bringing you coffee since I started at the winery, Sunny, and not once have you asked for cream or sugar." He moves close enough that his arm brushes mine. "I also know you hold the mug with both hands when you're comfortable and one hand when you're not."
I stare at him. "That's a very specific observation."
"I pay attention when something matters."
The echo lands like a jolt, and he knows it, because the corner of his mouth lifts in a way that's both infuriating and endearing.
I pick up my mug and wrap both hands around the ceramic without thinking about it.
His gaze drops to my hands, and the satisfied expression on his face makes me want to throw something at him.
We move around each other in the small kitchen with a rhythm that shouldn't exist between two people who have never shared a morning. He reaches past me for a spatula, pressing into my back for a second, and I lean into it before I can stop myself.
"You're good at this," I tell him.
"Handing you a spatula?"
"Being in someone else's space without making it feel smaller. Most people take up too much room."
"You're the opposite. You give everyone room and never ask for any yourself." He says it gently, without judgment, and the observation makes my hand still on the spatula.
I flip the pancakes and scramble the eggs, and we eat at my small table by the window. The morning light has shifted from gray to gold, filling the kitchen and catching the steam from our mugs.
Charlie eats the way he does everything, leisurely and with appreciation.
He compliments the eggs, which are just eggs, and he asks about my schedule for the day.
Our conversation drifts with an easy, natural flow, and it’s impossible to ignore how his bare foot rests against mine under the table.
Every time our eyes meet, the intimacy of this moment sizzles through me like a low current.
I'm clearing the plates when my phone buzzes on the counter. But the name on the screen makes my stomach drop.
Derek.
The message preview shows the first line before I can look away.
Hey babe, I'm going to be in the—
I flip the phone face-down on the counter. The motion is too fast, too sharp, and I know Charlie caught it because his posture shifts from relaxed to alert in an instant. He doesn't say anything, just picks up his coffee and takes a sip, his gaze level on my face, waiting.
My jaw is clenched, and the easy warmth of the morning has been shattered by a name I haven't seen on my phone in a while. The last time Derek texted me, almost a year ago, I deleted the message without reading it.
"Everything okay?" Charlie's voice is measured, giving me room the way he always does.
"Fine." The word comes out clipped, and I wince at the tone of my own voice. I rinse the plates and set them in the rack, trying to release the tension radiating from my shoulders.
Charlie sets his mug down and crosses his arms, leaning against the counter. He doesn't push or reach for my phone. He just stands there quietly.
The silence stretches. I spent the night with this man, woke up in his arms. And now I'm shutting down over a text message from someone who stopped mattering a long time ago.
I spin around and settle against the sink. "His name is Derek. He's my ex-boyfriend."