I must fall asleep, though, because when my eyes blink open, I抦 no longer alone. At first, I think the shadowy figure must be Phillipe or Martha. Then, I realize it抯 too broad and tall to be either my chef or my maid. Recognize the way my traitorous heart starts beating faster for no good reason at all. I抦 lying down梟o exertion in sight.
揜ough trip??Crew asks. The low, rough timbre of his voice washes over me, temporarily taking care of the headache. Adrenaline erases exhaustion. I forgot how stupidly symmetrical his face is.
I groan in response. My head still hurts. My throat is dry and my muscles feel stiff. 揑 feel like shit.?
揑 gathered.?There抯 a dry note to his voice that makes me think I must look as terrible as I feel. I shouldn抰 care. I do. Crew Kensington is the last person I want to exhibit any sort of weakness in front of.
He approaches me hesitantly, like I抦 a rabid animal likely to attack. If I could move my head, I would. I抎 stand up and go far, far away. Somewhere I can抰 smell him and sense him and see him. I close my eyes, like shutting off that sense will help. 揑 just need a minute before going upstairs. Go卍o whatever. Have a drink in the library like usual.?
揌ow would you know what my usual is??
Crap. Shit. Fuck. I keep my eyes closed and hope my face doesn抰 say I browsed the security footage instead of watching Netflix while I was in Paris. 揧ou抮e just predictable, I guess.?
Crew hums. It抯 an infuriating sound that gives no indication of whether or not he believes me. I consider opening my eyes and decide I抎 rather not know what he抯 thinking. A warm palm presses against my forehead. I flinch. The physical contact is unexpected. So is the gentle way his hand brushes my hair off my face. My skin prickles, reacting to his touch even after it disappears.
揌ow long have you been like this??
揑 don抰 know. I抦 hungover or tired or jetlagged or all three. The couch was closer than my bed. I haven抰 left the office before five卐ver.?
The last sentence isn抰 necessary. I feel some strange compulsion to justify the fact I抦 splayed out on the cushions like a starfish while it抯 still light out. To prove I don抰 sit back and collect a paycheck. Once again, I shouldn抰 care. But I do. I care that my mascara must be smudged and my hair matted, and my work ethic appears questionable.
Crew doesn抰 reply. Then, suddenly, I抦 not lying horizontal on the couch. I抦 weightless梐t least that抯 how it feels at first. A few seconds later, I抦 rocking. I focus on the solid press of his chest and arms. My head isn抰 appreciative of the movement. The rest of my body embraces the sensation of Crew carrying me. But I protest anyway. 揥hat the hell are you doing??
揌ow out of it are you? I thought it was obvious.?
I抦 not out of it at all anymore. I wish I were. Every sensation I抦 experiencing right now are ones I抦 fully present for. Worse, I抣l be able to remember this later. The way he smells good and feels even better. The press of a metal band against the skin of my thigh that symbolizes he belongs to me in a way many people would consider permanent.
I clear my throat. 揟his is sort of sweet of you, but I抦 fine.?I pack as much conviction into the last word as I can muster.
揑 think that couch would disagree.?
Crew starts up the stairs. I stop arguing. If he抯 going to be stubborn about it, I抦 best off pretending this is no big deal. Like I let men carry me bridal style all the time.
He turns to the right as soon as we reach the top of the steps and heads straight into my bedroom. 揧ou explored??The question comes out dry. There are seven guest bedrooms, minus the one he抯 claimed as his own. This wasn抰 just a lucky guess.
揥hat抯 yours is mine, baby.?
揇on抰 call me that,?I mumble. The heat of his body is seeping into mine, and it抯 making me sleepy. Sleepier. I haven抰 slept well in weeks. Before I left for Paris, I was riddled with nerves about the wedding. In Paris, I worked late and was woken up early by the market underneath my balcony. I抦 the sort of tired that blurs reality. I wouldn抰 be shocked if I wake up on the couch in an hour to learn this was a dream.
Rather than dump me on the bed, Crew carries me into the attached bathroom and sets me down on the marble that surrounds the tub. 揥hat are you doing??I question.
He doesn抰 answer. Either with an explanation or by telling me I抦 asking the obvious again. It is obvious when he starts the tap running and dumps in an assortment of the salts and soaps from the glass containers set along the windowsill. Steam starts to rise from the water, swirling with the fragrant scents of rose and eucalyptus and steadily building bubbles.
Once the tub is filled, Crew shuts the water off and pulls me standing. I抦 worried I might fall asleep mid-bath. I抦 far more concerned this sweet gesture might make me say or do something very stupid.