The Rom Con(82)

“Morning,” I murmur.

“Mmm,” he mumbles, and his gravelly, sleep-drenched voice instantly becomes my favorite sound in the world. He turns his head and kisses my hair without opening his eyes, and I bloom under his affection. I feel like we’ve been doing this for a hundred years.

I watch his chest rise and fall for a full minute, feeling deeply content. Happy. “How’d you sleep?” I ask, drawing lazy circles on his abdomen.

He peeks one eye open. “Is that a real question? Best night of sleep I’ve ever had. Totally uninterrupted. Nice long stretch.”

I giggle as he brings my hand to his mouth for a kiss, and I know we’re both replaying our late-night exertions, the ones that kept us up half the night until we finally collapsed in exhaustion, sweaty and sated. In fact, I’d be a total zombie right now if not for the potent post-sex adrenaline still humming through my veins. The whole night has taken on a surreal, dreamlike quality, with steamy flashbacks spooling through my mind like a silent movie.

I start grooming his mussed hair, finger-combing his bedhead. I can’t stop touching him. “You have this rebellious little tuft in the front here that just doesn’t want to behave.” I make a few more attempts at taming said tuft before giving up.

He swipes at it with a coarse groan. “It’s extremely annoying.”

“No, I like it. It’s a rule breaker. You’re always so put together and on point, it’s nice to see you this way.” Unguarded and vulnerable—a side of him only I get to see.

It’s something I’ve been thinking about a lot lately, that I want to lighten his load, give him permission to slack off, be a source of fun and play in his life. Barring last night’s theatrics, he’s always so buttoned-up and controlled, rarely stepping out of line, forever carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. It must be exhausting to be the responsible one all the time.

He yawns and stretches, and I study the way his ab muscles flex and bunch like I’ll be tested on it later. “What do you want to do today?”

“This.”

He laughs and rolls to face me, a smile in his eyes. “I feel like we’ll eventually need to eat.”

I pout at the idea of leaving this bed. So much for those change-of-address forms I’ve been mentally filling out. “How about room service?” I suggest hopefully. A bulletproof compromise if I’ve ever heard one.

“We could probably use some other clothes,” he says pragmatically, and honestly, his logic is getting annoying.

“Ugh, fine.” I’m tempted to sing that he’s a party pooper on par with Father of the Bride’s George Banks, but because I am mature, I refrain.

I throw off the covers and roll out of bed, and when I stand and stretch his eyes track over my body in a look so heated, it singes my skin. “Could you do that again? Maybe just a little slower?”

“I’m sorry, but someone has to eat,” I say with exaggerated emphasis as I cross the room. “Someone is starving.” I retrieve my panties from the desk and bend over provocatively, sliding them on in super-slow-mo.

I’m gratified by the choking noise he makes behind me. “Now that’s just cruel.”

I toss a satisfied smirk over my shoulder and grab my purse from the desk before heading into the bathroom, helping myself to the plush white robe hanging on the back of the door. Is this cashmere? My word. I wonder how hard it would be to smuggle this thing out of here—though without a suitcase, I’m guessing pretty hard. Maybe I can throw it on over my dress and pass it off as a couture coat. It’s called fashion, people. Honestly, it’d be worth the funny looks just to get an upgrade from the cheap waffle-weave number I’ve been rocking since college. This is the kind of fanciness I can get behind, thankyouverymuch Jack.

I do my business, then wash my face and attempt to tame my mane, which is an unmitigated disaster following last night’s erotic escapades. Thank goodness for small favors because there’s a complimentary toiletry kit set out on the sink that miraculously includes a toothbrush. All hail swanky hotels. I could get used to this.

I give up trying to make my hair look presentable and pull out my phone, wincing with guilt when I realize I never checked in with Nat after last night’s spectacle. She probably thinks I’ve been out burying Jack’s body—and knowing her, she’s got several airtight alibis locked and loaded.

The phone starts vibrating and dinging with messages as soon as I boot it up, and whoa—sixty-three text messages, twenty-three voice mails. “What the . . .”

I scroll through my call log first—there are several voice mails from Nat, three from my sister, one from my parents, and a ton from unknown numbers. Did Nat call everyone I know looking for me? Great, now I’m queasy at the thought of having to explain my disappearing act. Sorry everyone, I was too busy having multiple orgasms to answer your calls? No.

I switch over to my text messages. As expected, a slew of them are from Nat: Where are you? Are you okay? and CALL ME and Seriously, call me right now, 911. But I zero in on one from a college friend I haven’t heard from in months—since her wedding last year, in fact—and click on it.

Sarah: OMG Cass, is this true? I couldn’t believe it when Doug showed it to me!

Beneath her text there’s a link to an article from Page Six, and I click on it with a mounting sense of dread. I sink down onto the closed toilet lid while the page loads—then gasp when the headline pops up.