20. Campbell #3
We lay there in the quiet dark, our skin damp, our muscles heavy with a deep, bone-weary exhaustion. After a while, Jake shifts, his arm sliding under my neck to pull me closer, his chest expanding against my shoulder blades in a long, slow exhale.
“Shower,” he murmurs, his voice a gravelly, post-coital whisper against my ear.
“Mmm,” I agree, though I can’t find the strength to move a single muscle. “In a minute.”
Eventually, we make it to the small bathroom.
The shower is a tight squeeze, a narrow fiberglass stall that requires us to stand flush together under the spray of lukewarm water.
Jake takes the bar of soap, working up a lather between his hands, and gently washes the sweat and evidence of the night from my skin.
He’s careful, his hands moving over my curves with a quiet reverence that feels distinct from the manic hunger that took over our bodies moments ago.
When we finally crawl back into the bed, the sheets feel cool. The world outside the window has long been dark now, stars beginning to flirt with the sky.
I curl onto my side, my head resting on his bare chest, my arm draped over his ribs. Jake’s hand finds my head, his long fingers threading through my damp hair, gently stroking the strands away from my face in a slow, hypnotic tempo that instantly makes my eyelids feel heavy.
“Stay,” he murmurs into the quiet room, his voice thick with sleep. “Just give in and fall with me, Campbell. Catch up to me.”
I let out a soft, breathy sigh, my body sinking completely into the mattress, my heart happy, my soul at home.
“I already did,” I whisper against his skin.
Jake doesn’t answer with words. He just squeezes his arm around my waist, pulling me so close there is no space left between us, and kisses the top of my head. I finally close my eyes and let myself fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.
The transition from deep sleep to absolute clarity happens in an instant.
I wake up before the sun has barely breached the horizon. The studio is washed in a cool, ethereal blue, the shadows long and soft across the hardwood floor.
The crack of dawn does wonders for this place. I smile to myself.
Next to me, Jake is dead to the world, lying on his stomach with one massive arm thrown across my pillow, his back rising and falling, keeping time, ticking away seconds of the day.
I lay still for a moment, savoring the profound sense of peace that fills the room.
For the first time in years, I don’t wake up with a knot of anxiety in my stomach about my father’s expectations or my failures in pleasing him.
In fact, if he were to call right this moment, I might simply shut off my phone and drop it in Jake’s garbage disposal.
Despite the calm, within thirty seconds, my brain does what it always does—it switches into strategy mode. Maybe I dreamt after all. Only, rather than dreaming of Jake—or a fantasy land—I dreamt of the work that lies ahead.
Carefully, so as not to wake him, I slip from under his arm and slide out of bed.
The chilly morning air hits my bare skin, making me shiver as I pad across the floor to grab one of his oversized Mavericks shirts from the top of his dresser.
I pull it on, then retrieve my laptop and folders from my tote bag.
I climb back into the bed, propping the pillows against the wall to brace my back, and fold my legs up underneath me. By the time the first sliver of golden sunlight pierces through the window, my screen is glowing, and I am already deep into a media blueprint.
FROM: [email protected]
SUBJECT: Save Sweetwater – Phase 1 Media Framework
Sarah,
Following up on our meeting last night. To effectively counter my father and his client, we need to bypass the legal avenues where he holds the financial advantage. We must construct a public relations wall.
Step 1: The Personal Angle. We need to document the historical significance of the properties south of the apartment complex and around the ballpark. I need family histories, old photographs, and testimonials.
Step 2: Legal Pressure Point. I am reviewing the county zoning filings Winnie provided. Summerhill Executives is vulnerable on their traffic impact assessments for the access roads. If we choke the logistics, we stall the timeline.
Let me know your thoughts on a town hall schedule.
Best,
Campbell
A sudden rustle of sheets catches my attention.
I look over the top of my screen to see Jake stirring.
He blinks against the morning light, his dark eyes unfocused for a second before they find me.
A soft, lazy smile touches his lips, his face still lined with the sleep of a man who caught for nine innings and then spent the night owning my body.
He doesn’t say a word at first. He just stretches, his long torso lengthening as he rolls onto his back, yawning. He slides his legs out of the bed, reaching for his jeans on the floor and pulling them on, followed by a faded black T-shirt he snags from his wardrobe.
“Don’t move,” he grumbles, his voice raspy from sleep. “My coffee machine is completely non-existent, and you look like you’re about to sue someone. I’m going to run down to the convenience store and get us a couple of cups.”
“You’re a lifesaver, McKinney,” I say, not taking my eyes off the screen as my fingers continue to fly across the keyboard.
Ten minutes later, the door clicks open, and the precious aroma of fresh, dark roast coffee fills the room.
Balancing two paper cups and a brown paper bag that smells faintly of cinnamon, Jake walks over to the bed and hands me a cup before setting the bag on the bed next to me.
He hovers, one hand shoved into his pocket while he leisurely sips from his cup.
“Are you always up this early?” I ask, taking a grateful sip of the scalding liquid. “The sun isn’t even officially up yet.”
“Always,” he says, a faint smile playing on his lips. “I have to be at my mom’s by five-thirty to care for the livestock. Toss some hay, check the fences. And then I hit the hills for a good four-mile run before I have to report to the stadium for practice.”
I look up from my laptop, staring at him over the rim of my paper cup. I stare long and uninterrupted. He lets me. He’s this sturdy, disciplined, completely dedicated man, care given to even the smallest pieces of his life, and a profound sense of admiration washes over me.
“I used to run early, too,” I murmur, a nostalgic smile touching my lips.
“I remember,” he says. That’s how you met Willie.
I let out a short, sudden laugh, shaking my head. “Willie 2.0.”
Jake’s laughter fades into something softer, something incredibly warm.
He steps to the edge of the bed, leaning over me, his shadow falling across my laptop screen and then my face.
I lift my chin as his mouth hovers just an inch above mine, the heat of his breath mingling with the steam from the coffee.
Several seconds pass, and he doesn’t close the distance.
He just looks at me, his eyes scanning my face, my messy hair, the oversized shirt that belongs to him.
The expression on his face is so entirely devoid of his usual grumpy exterior that it messes with my heartbeat, or at least, I imagine it does.
“I admire you, Jake,” I say softly, the honesty slipping out before I can filter it. “Your drive. Your passion for your family, for this town. The fact you work this hard even when nobody is watching.”
The corners of his mouth turn up, morphing into a beautiful, tender smile that brushes against my lips as he finally closes the gap. The kiss is brief, and tastes faintly of black coffee, but it sends a shiver down to my toes.
“I simply admire you, Campbell,” he whispers at my ear. “Now get back to work. We have a town to save.”