8. Sully
Sully
A t the sound of a clunk on the hardwood floor, I bolt upright. I regret it instantly. Fuck . I haven’t even opened my eyes when I slam against the low ceiling above me. Again.
I bite back a string of curses as I rub my forehead.
Men over six feet should not sleep in bunk beds.
The pain ebbs as I lie back again, but as I shift, my lower back twinges, sending a bolt of pain down my leg.
The bloody leg that’s hanging off the end of this cursedly tiny bed.
Fuck my height. Sleeping arrangements like this are a nightmare for men over forty.
Teeth gritted, I straighten my leg and flex my foot to ease the locked muscle. Two knee bends later, the pain subsides. Damn, getting old sucks.
By now, my eyes have adjusted to the dark, and from here, I can see two Columbia Law sweatshirts folded neatly on the floor.
My lips twitch. Sloane climbed into bed wearing both of them, looking like the cutest marshmallow man I’d ever seen.
I didn’t think I’d see the pregnancy waddle for a few more months, but it was almost there tonight when she wandered in wearing at least three pairs of trousers .
Movement on the bed catches my attention, so I turn on my side.
Sloane slowly rolls to sitting in a way that would probably be eerie if I hadn’t seen her do this hundreds of times.
She’s self-conscious about her tendency to strip-sleep.
Is that what it would be called? Strip-sleepwalking, maybe?
Regardless of how it would be labeled by a professional, I’ve always enjoyed watching her do this.
Standing now, she looks ten pounds lighter than she did when she went to bed, which means the two sweatshirts on the floor probably aren’t the only things she’s shed so far tonight.
With bated breath, I lean closer to the edge.
As much as I want this to be the last layer so I can get a peek at the flawless skin beneath, skin I haven’t seen in months, I know if it is, I’ll have to look away.
She would hate me for looking without her permission.
It hurts to admit, but it’s the truth. There was a time when I got this show every night.
Damn do I miss those days.
She slips her hands into the waistband of her gray sweats and lowers them slowly. I prepare to look away, my heart thudding heavily, but when the black fabric beneath is visible, I let out a long breath.
My bloody wife is the most put-together person I know in the light of day. But this quirk, this imperfection, is one of my favorite things about her.
She folds the gray material, but instead of putting the sweats in the pile of clothes on the floor, she moves efficiently to the dresser and slides them into a drawer. While she stands there, she drags her long-sleeve shirt over her head.
This time, the pale skin of her back comes into view, interrupted only by the strap of her bra.
Groaning, I lean back and stare at the ceiling.
Her footsteps are nearly imperceptible as she moves back to bed.
If I look down now, I’ll get a peek of her full breasts covered in nothing but a thin layer of lace. I want to. Fuck, am I desperate to see more of her. But I shouldn’t. No. I’ll keep my eyes to myself until she gives me the go-ahead.
That’s what I’m trying to convince myself of when, without my permission, my attention drifts down to my wife and I catch the swell of the most perfect breasts in the world.
I only allow myself to look for the space of one breath. Then I’m flat on my back again, my eyes screwed shut. I am a bloody creeper.
The bed creaks, signaling that she’s snuggled under the blankets again. My girl is a burrower. I sit up, allowing myself to look at her again, knowing she’s covered.
It’s a mistake. Karma, maybe, for peeking at Sloane. Because I smack my head on the ceiling again, and stars dance in my vision.
But when they clear, I can’t help but take in my wife, who’s now buried beneath three massive comforters and surrounded by a mountain of pillows.
Fuck, she’s beautiful. Yes, we’re sleeping in separate beds, and yes, every word she says to me is laced with derision, but this is a start. For now, we’re in the same room, and that gives me hope that we’re heading in the right direction.
I’m only slightly disappointed to discover Sloane hasn’t removed any more clothes when I quietly slip out of bed to get ready for the day.
I’m up earlier than usual, determined to shower and dress early, then wake T.J. and get him ready, allowing Sloane time to focus on herself. With any luck, I can talk her into stopping for breakfast after we drop T.J. off.
Unfortunately, my wanker of a brother throws a wrench into my plan.
“I always take Murphy to school. Tell him, Lola.” My overdramatic brother spins toward his girlfriend, his brows hitting his hairline. “Tell him,” he huffs. “I. Take. Murphy.”
Yeah, he typically drops Murphy at school in the city, and even T.J. on the days he’s with me. But I figured he’d be thankful for a break from carpooling.
Lo rubs her hand up and down Cal’s back, her eyes shifting from my brother to me to Sloane and back. “Of course you do, baby.”
I want to tell him to fuck off, but my conscience stops me, reminding me that he only discovered his son existed a matter of months ago, and the transition wasn’t easy on either of them.
And as much as my brother irritates me, for as over-the-top as he is, his love for Murphy is pure.
His plunge into fatherhood wasn’t all that graceful, but he proves to his little lad every day that he can be counted on.
“Okay,” I say with a sigh. “You take Murphy and I’ll take T.J.”
“No.” Sloane narrows her eyes, her expression shifting into a scowl I’ve become very, very familiar with these last several months. Actually, years now that I think about it. “Taking two cars to the city is ridiculous.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Why are you arguing this? Is it because you don’t think I’m capable of taking our son to school?” she almost growls.
“Of course not,” I rush out.
Fuck. I walked right into a trap.
“Because I’m pregnant, I’m no longer capable?” she asks, her face flushing an angry red. “Or have you always found me so incapable?”
“You are more than capable,” I choke out. “That’s what I meant.” When her expression doesn’t relax, panic overtakes me. “Of course I think you’re capable,” I go on. “Of course I don’t think you’re not capable.”
Lo and Cal watch us with matching expressions of confusion.
My wife still looks like she’s gearing up to send laser beams shooting from her eyes.
Cal clears his throat, forcing his expression from that of What the fuck did he just say? to one of confidence. “I’ll take them in the mornings. You can pick Sloaney up after work.”
I know a losing fight when I see one. “Fine.”
Since I only get one ride from the city with Sloane, I make the most of it. I show up fifteen minutes early with my wife’s favorite decaf caramel macchiato and take the elevator up to the twenty-second floor.
The stainless-steel box creeps up so slowly, I begin to think I could have made it there faster if I’d taken the stairs.
By the time the doors open, my body is buzzing with anxious energy.
All I want is to lay eyes on Sloane. Back in law school, there were days I could hardly make it through a class because every cell in my body was desperate to be in her presence.
Though it seems impossible now, that sensation subsided over the years. Somewhere along the way, I allowed myself to believe that I’d always have her. I took our time together for granted, so sure that I’d always start and end my day with her.
Living without her for the last several months has brought that anxious need to be caught in her orbit back in full force.
I nod at the people I pass as I stride toward Sloane’s office.Each one greets me with a friendly look. All except the good-looking wanker behind the desk outside her door.
“Look.” He smirks, his white teeth practically glinting in the fluorescent light. “It’s baby daddy. She might kill you for drinking coffee in front of her.”
Irritation rips up my spine. “I’m the husband, Caesar.”
He chuckles, unfazed. “We’ll see.”
There is no world in which I’ll allow any outcome that doesn’t involve Sloane and me together forever. Even if it means chaining her to me.
I scowl and loom over his desk, satisfied when my shadow falls over him. “Want to bet on it? Because I will win my wife back, and I won’t let anyone get in my way. ”
The fucker doesn’t even bother to look intimidated. No, he straightens, grinning, and claps. “Ooh, baby daddy’s got grit. Didn’t see that coming.”
With a step back, I huff. “How does Sloane put up with you?”
“Sloane adores me. You, on the other hand.” He shakes his head. “I’ve heard some not-so-nice rumors.”
“I very much doubt that.” I sneer. “My wife has never liked an assistant.” Sloane went through more than a few while she worked for our firm.
She may be my perfect match, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t have a flaw or two.
And she’s never gotten along well with any of her assistants at Murphy and Machon all the years she worked for us.
“That’s because she never worked with me before. I am a magical unicorn of an assistant.”
I bark out a laugh, but the sound cuts off when I hear my wife’s voice.
“We need to push for Cartwright or Sauter. Both tend to be more pro-father.”
Straightening, I turn toward her door, my body once again eager to be near hers.
As she turns the corner, her eyes widen, and she breaks into a look I know without a doubt means she’s pleasantly surprised to see me.
My chest swells. It’s been forever since I’ve had this kind of effect on her. This is officially the greatest moment of my day.
That is until I take her in and discover that Will fucking Higgins is touching her.
The sense of elation that hit me at the sight of her is quickly stomped out as I zero in on her lower back, where Will’s hand rests just above her ass.
Any lower and I’d have to kill him.
It takes superhuman strength not to lose my fucking mind when he looks up and breaks into a taunting smirk. “Sully, what brings you out of your shithole office and back to New York?”
Lo complains about our place in Jersey constantly. That I can handle. But as the words leave Will’s mouth, my hands tighten into fists. I want to snap back, but I have absolutely no legitimate argument. He’s right. The place is a shithole.
“You’re early,” Sloane says.
Those two words are enough to wash away the urge to punch the motherfucker beside her in the nose. This woman is what matters. Her and our children.
And the delighted surprise on her face. Because dammit, she still looks happy to see me.
“It’s not your job to wait for me,” I tell her, taking a step closer. “It’s my job to wait for you.” I give Will a pointed look, and the arsehole has enough sense to step back.
With a huff, Sloane rolls her eyes. “Because I’m the incubator.”
Fuck.
“No.” I hold out the decaf caramel macchiato. “Because being with you is the best part of my day.”
To my utter shock, for what feels like the first time in a millennium, my wife smiles at me.