Chapter 28
Pale golden light stretches across the ceiling in soft ribbons.
I’m in bed.
Barefoot, but in yesterday’s clothes, and stretched across crisp sheets that carry the scent of cedar, laundry soap, and something distinctly him.
It takes me a second to register how I got here.
The last thing I remember is bourbon on my tongue, the slow thump of his heartbeat beneath my cheek, the sound of crickets, and the occasional rustle of leaves. I must’ve fallen asleep on him out on that oversized chair. And he—God—he must’ve carried me to bed. Didn’t wake me. Just let me sleep.
My heart folds in on itself a little.
I glance to my right. The other side of the bed is empty, but the warmth lingers in the rumpled sheets, a silent trace of where he’d been.
There's a faint indentation on the pillow, and I swear, I can almost remember it.
A dream-like impression of arms around me.
Of being held. Of not waking once all night.
Which is insane.
I always wake up. Always. Usually twice, thanks to my bladder and the lovely curse of being a woman nearing forty.
I blink again and smile, dazed and soft.
“Damn it,” I murmur to the quiet room. “I missed our first night actually sleeping in the same bed.”
I press my face into the pillow, indulging in the kind of childish pout reserved for teenage crushes, even as the ache in my back from sleeping in jeans pulls me back to reality. Definitely not a sexy wake-up moment.
Somewhere in the distance of the house, I hear faint movement. A low clink of glass or maybe a cupboard door closing.
I throw the covers off and pad across the cushioned carpet toward the bathroom.
When I catch sight of myself in the mirror, I stop.
Jesus.
My mascara’s done some kind of modern art beneath my eyes, and my hair looks freshly humiliated by a gust of wind.
I quickly run a comb through it, then brush my teeth using the travel kit I brought. A minty reset helps, but when I blink up at my reflection again, my eyes feel… wrong. Dry. Burned. Almost crunchy.
Contacts. Fuck.
I peel them off my eyeballs with a dramatic wince and hurl them into the trash with all the flair of banishing a demon.
From the side pouch of my cosmetics bag, I dig out the glasses I always mean to wear before bed but never do.
They’re slightly crooked from being crammed in a case too long, but they’ll do.
I take one more breath and stare at myself again, hands pressed to the edge of the counter.
“Don’t overthink it,” I whisper to the woman in the mirror. “Just… don’t.”
Because for once, there’s nothing to fix. Nothing to manage. Just a man in the kitchen who let me sleep in his arms, carried me to bed without making a thing of it, and left the morning to start gently.
And for me?
That might be scarier than anything.
The floors are warm under my feet as I tiptoe toward the kitchen, trying not to make a sound. Not sure why I’m sneaking. Maybe it’s because I don’t want to interrupt the calm, or maybe it’s because I’m hoping to catch an unfiltered, unguarded glimpse of him.
And oh, do I.
Hex is standing at the stove, flipping pancakes with the kind of focus that suggests he takes his breakfast as serious as his bourbon.
He’s shirtless and I watch as his broad back flexes with every movement.
And those thick arms are some kind of walking thirst trap with a spatula.
Gray sweatpants hang loose and low on his hips, just enough to make me rethink every responsible thought I’ve ever had.
Arguably the sexiest man I’ve ever seen... making pancakes.
My ovaries write a strongly worded letter to my self-control.
“Morning,” I manage, voice a little hoarse.
He glances back over his shoulder and smirks, unapologetically slow about it. “Well look who’s up. I was just about to come check if you were still breathing.”
“I didn’t want to leave the bed, in hopes you’d come back to it,” I admit, leaning on the counter, arms crossed.
I’m trying to seem chill and not like I’ve forgotten how basic motor functions work.
“You like my bed,” he says, flipping a pancake with ease. Not a question. “Where I might add, you were fully clothed and drooling on my pillow.”
I hard blink, or just shut my eyes as if it will expel the embarrassing thought. “I drooled?”
He grins. “Only a little. It was cute. You make this little sound when you’re really out. Kind of a cross between a sigh and a grumble.”
“I do not grumble in my sleep.” I inhale all the air in the room and hold it.
“You sure?” A dark eyebrow arches.
I let it out and let the embarrassment go with it.
“You’re on thin ice, Pancake Man,” I say with a wink.
He plates a cake with ease and turns, leaning a hip against the counter. “What can I say? I just happened to have all the ingredients. No whipped cream though.” He grins. That grin. The one that curves a little wickedly at the edge.
Heat rushes straight between my legs at the memory of the bar… of the lunch-that-wasn’t.
I blush. Hard. Then clench my thighs as if that will hold the wetness in.
Hex’s eyes flick down for a half second before lifting back to mine, amusement dancing at the corners where I notice the hint of a wrinkle.
“Shame,” I say, playing it cool, “whipped cream really turns things into a good time.”
His smile deepens. “Next time, I’ll plan ahead.”
I shake my head, taking a seat on a barstool and pretending not to be weak in the knees.
He tilts his head.
“You suppose to be wearing glasses all the time?” he asks. “This is the second time I’ve caught you with them.”
“No,” I mumble. “Just… my contacts betrayed me.”
He steps in to crowd my space, and that makes my pulse tick faster. Then he reaches up and plucks the glasses off my face with ease.
“Hey—”
He slides them over the bridge of his nose and squints out the window. “Damn! You’re fucking blind, Sable.”
The glasses are so crooked on him, I can’t help but laugh. He’s giving smoldering librarian who moonlights as a barroom brawler. “Give those back before you hurt yourself.”
“Do you need to register these as a visual disability?” he teases, handing them back.
I slip them on, cheeks still warm and smile feeling permanent. “Don’t knock it. They give me depth perception. And yes, I can’t drive without some sort of correction.”
“Well, now that you can see, have a go at these pancakes.” He passes me a plate. “Get ready to be impressed.”
I raise an eyebrow. “I hope you don’t expect me to eat ten of these. That was a one-time thing.”
A waft of hazelnut reaches my nose, steam curling from the coffee mug he sets beside my plate. “Nah, just two. Maybe three. I like knowing I can out-eat you. It’s humbling… for you.”
I take a bite, instantly impressed by the vanilla and hint of cinnamon caressing my taste buds. “You wish.”
Hex leans in, eyes flicking down, then dragging back up with unhurried purpose. “I don’t have to wish. I know I’m good at eating.”
Oh, we’re not talking about food anymore.
“You’ve felt it firsthand. Twice.” He doesn’t break. Doesn’t smirk or wink like an amateur. He just delivers the line, calm and lethal, fully aware of what it does to me.
Heat pulses through me so fast I almost forget to chew.
“If we’re keeping score…” he adds, “I’m ahead by one. But I’m happy to selflessly give you your third to keep my lead.”
My mouth goes dry. My thighs press together like they’re answering a call before my brain has even realized it.
“Jesus,” I murmur, almost to myself. “You’re real slick, huh?”
He shrugs. “I’m good at what I do. And you, Legs, like it slick. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t be squeezing so tight under the counter.”
I shoot him a glare, or try to, but my smile betrays me. I’m blushing. Burning. Ready to melt into this stool.
We eat the rest of breakfast in silence, but the air vibrates with tension. His eyes keep finding mine. And every time they do, my body responds, waiting for the next move.
When I finally push my plate back, Hex is up and already rinsing his, grabbing for mine too.
“I got this,” he says. “Go get dressed. Something comfortable.”
“Where are we going?” I ask.
He dries his hands, gaze drifting to the window, measuring the daylight. “Somewhere close. Somewhere you’ll like. Thought we’d take advantage of spring before the sun turns everything worth doing outside into a trip to hell.”
I eye him, curious. “That’s not an answer.”
“That’s all you’re getting.” He tosses the towel he used over his shoulder.
I start walking out of the kitchen but stop to look back at him. “If I get my third today, don’t expect me to be surprised.”
Hex grins that stupidly sexy grin, eyes stroking me with heat. “I don’t want surprised. I want you begging.”
I disappear into the hallway before he can see what his words do to me.
We return from our day out just as the sky starts blushing into dusk, the air still comfortably warm and soft around us.
My hands are only half-full. Hex insisted on carrying the heavier bags, leaving me with the jar of wildflower honey, a sage colored linen sachet I didn’t need but wanted, and a half-melted chocolate bar from a roadside market that we’d already cracked open somewhere between enjoying ourselves and too much laughter.
The sachet smells of cedar and bourbon, something earthy and sweet that reminded me of him the second I picked it up. I didn’t even hesitate to buy it.
“I want my sheets to smell like this,” I’d told him in the little shop, turning the sachet over in my hand and raising it to my nose. “Smells like you.”
He’d leaned close, voice low enough to make the shopkeeper pretend she wasn’t listening. “I’d happily rub myself all over your sheets to make that happen.”
The thought of this beautiful man spread out all over... “I’ll take that too.”
So now, walking back into his house with that scent tucked under my arm, I already feel a little more tethered to him. Like the day threaded something unexpected between us, something I want to keep for an indeterminable amount of time.