R.E.S.P.E.C.T.
RILEY
Iwake up at noon.
The sun has already moved past the window, and the bed is still warm where Easton was five hours ago. The house is quiet, but instead of making me feel alone, the silence settles around me in a way that feels peaceful.
I stretch beneath the covers and roll onto my back, my eyes drifting to the empty pillow beside me.
Somewhere along the way, this became normal.
We never talked about it. There was no conversation where we decided I would start sleeping in Easton’s bed instead of the guest room, no moment where either of us suggested that this should become an every-night thing. It just happened.
And then it kept happening.
I can’t remember the last time I fell asleep alone.
And most nights, we have sex.
God, do we have sex.
My lips curve as memories from last night make my skin warm beneath the sheets, but it isn’t only that. If it were only the sex, maybe I could put what’s happening between us into a neat little box and stop thinking about it so much.
It’s everything around it.
Easton asking if I’ve eaten. Listening when I talk about photography like every word matters, asking questions and remembering things I mentioned days ago.
Buying me clothes when I had nothing of my own, then going out of his way to find me a camera because he knew how much photography meant to me.
The way he reaches for me in his sleep, like even unconscious, he wants to make sure I’m still there.
I feel taken care of here. Cared for.
With Preston, everything came with invisible strings. The house, the clothes, the dinners, the life everyone thought I was lucky to have. Every beautiful thing was another piece of evidence that I should be grateful, another reason I had no right to complain.
Easton gives without making me feel like I owe him anything.
He makes me feel protected without making me feel trapped. Cherished without making me feel owned.
And I trust him.
Lying here in his bed with his scent still clinging to the pillow beside me, all I feel is safe.
For a moment, I just stay there, mentally calibrating my day.
Since he got the camera for me, I’ve been busy.
Booked and busy. The words cross my mind, and I laugh, seeing the vision.
Two months ago, if anyone had told me I’d own a camera again, and be on the road to living my dream life, I’d have cursed them out for trying to mock the picture-perfect life Preston and I have built.
But right now, I can’t even bring myself to think of the living conditions I had to endure back then.
Waking at the crack of dawn. Getting dolled up and pretty just to stay home all day, wander in his estate, with maids and housekeepers waiting on me. It seems like a picture-perfect life, packaged with emotional abuse, hidden from the public eye.
Now… Now I can be Riley Brooks, the woman who rediscovered her passion in photography and is on her way to building a career.
And the agenda for today; edit some of my recent pictures, with Easton as my muse, and share my first posts on my newly created social media pages, that are on their way to becoming my business accounts.
And that’s all of the motivation I need to roll out of bed.
My feet carry me toward the bathroom.
I have been using the guest bathroom this whole time, but today, I don’t have the willpower to walk down the hall, not when the master bathroom is right there, ten steps from the bed, and Easton is at a meeting until at least three. Not practice. Pre-season prep.
He mentioned over coffee yesterday that pre-season is starting up, the first game is six weeks out, and the meetings are about to start eating his mornings. He said it apologetically, like he was warning me of his busy schedule.
I step through the door. His bathroom is bigger than mine. The shower is slate-tiled with two heads. The counter is mostly empty, a leather tray with his watch, a bottle of cologne, a cedarwood body wash, and a sandalwood shampoo.
I pull off the t-shirt, turn the water on, and step in.
The water is hot, and the shower is the size of a room. I stand under both heads at once. I reach for his shampoo. I lather it through my hair with my eyes closed against the spray, and somewhere in the middle of it, without deciding to, I start singing.
I’m not a singer, and maybe that’s stopped me before.
But not today.
Sit Still, Look Pretty by Daya sails from my lips as I nod along to the makeshift beat, adding a little shoulder movement while I rinse the shampoo from my hair.
Wow.
Either the acoustics in this shower are incredible, or I’ve seriously underestimated my talents all these years.
By the time I rinse the conditioner from my hair, I’m fully committed to the performance.
There’s shoulder movement, a little hip action, and at one point, I point dramatically at an imaginary audience that is, quite frankly, lucky to have me.
When I finally shut off the water, I grab one of Easton’s enormous towels and wrap it around myself, but the concert is far from over.
My eyes land on a hairbrush on the counter, and naturally, it becomes a microphone.
I’ve moved on to Aretha Franklin now, belting out “R-E-S-P-E-C-T” like I’m her long-lost successor while closing my eyes and really feeling the music.
I throw one arm dramatically into the air, add a hip pop that would probably embarrass me under any other circumstances, and finish with what I consider a very respectable hair flip.
Then I open my eyes.
Easton is standing in the doorway with his mouth slightly open, staring at me.
Every muscle in my body locks in place, leaving me frozen with one arm still raised above my head and the hairbrush hovering in front of my mouth.
For several excruciating seconds, neither of us says anything.
His gaze moves slowly from my raised arm to the hairbrush, drops briefly to whatever ridiculous position my hips have ended up in, and finally returns to my face.
I lower my arm as much dignity as I can muster, which isn’t much considering I’m standing in his bathroom wearing nothing but a towel after he just witnessed my one-woman tribute to Aretha Franklin.
Easton presses his lips together, but his shoulders have already started shaking.
I glare at him. “How long have you been standing there?”
That’s all it takes to destroy whatever control he had left.
His laughter bursts out, loud and completely unrestrained, and he tips his head back while my entire body catches fire with embarrassment.
“Not long,” he manages eventually, although he’s laughing so hard the words barely make it out.
I narrow my eyes. “Define not long.”
“I came in while the shower was still running. Thought I’d join you.”
He looks at the hairbrush again, which sends him straight back into another fit of laughter. “But then I saw...” He gestures helplessly at me, apparently incapable of finding a word that adequately describes what he witnessed.
“You saw nothing.”
“I definitely saw something.”
“No, you didn’t.”
His grin spreads wider as he wipes beneath one eye. There is an actual tear there, which is frankly insulting.
“Baby, you know I support you to death, but stick to photography. Music...” He sucks air through his teeth and slowly shakes his head. “Not for you, my love.”
My jaw drops. “Get out.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “This is my bathroom.”
“Fine.” I point the hairbrush at him like a weapon. “You can stay, but we never speak of this again. Clearly, you just don’t know how to appreciate fine art.”
“Oh, I’m pretty sure I appreciated it plenty.”
“Easton.”
“All right.” He raises both hands, although the grin on his face does absolutely nothing to reassure me. “My lips are sealed.”
I’m caught somewhere between wanting to be angry with him and wanting the marble floor to split open and swallow me whole, but then he wipes another tear of laughter from his cheek and something about the sheer delight on his face breaks through my humiliation.
A laugh escapes me before I can stop it.
Easton’s grin softens as he watches me, and I shake my head. “You should know that if you think telling me something isn’t for me is going to make me give it up, then you really don’t know me.”
“Oh, is that so, my love?”
“It absolutely is.” I point a finger at him, but he’s moved closer while we’ve been talking, and instead of accusingly waving it in his direction, I end up poking him directly in the chest. “I should warn you, Easton Mysterious Blake, Little Miss Riley Brooks does not back down from a challenge.”
I tap his chest again for emphasis, but this time, his hand closes around my finger before I can pull it away.
“Mmm. I see.” His eyes remain on mine, amusement still sparkling in them. “And you’ve certainly proven yourself, love.”
“You have no idea.”
“I’m starting to.”
Something in his voice changes just enough to make the smile on my face falter.
Somewhere during all the laughing and arguing, the distance between us has disappeared, and suddenly I’m painfully aware that I’m standing in front of him wearing nothing but a towel, my wet hair dripping down my back while his fingers are still loosely wrapped around mine.
His gaze holds mine as he releases my hand, only to bring his palm to my cheek.
His thumb sweeps gently over my skin, and the laughter that was bubbling in my chest seconds ago dissolves into something warmer.
My pulse kicks up.
When he lowers his head and presses his lips to mine, it dawns on me.
How close we’re standing. His body is an inch away from mine, and his palms on my cheeks are warm. So warm, I feel it down to my bones.
But that’s not all.
Easton Blake walked in on me in his bathroom. Singing and using his bathroom. With his towel now wrapped around me. And he’s not saying anything about it.
Do I… should I apologize? Is he even okay with this?
Oh God. I should have known better.
“Easton…” I rush to apologize, but his minty breath fans my lips just before he kisses me.
“Don’t,” he murmurs against my mouth. “Whatever you’re about to apologize for, don’t.” He kisses me again, and his arms hold my hips.