Reaching for my cup, I stay by her side and drink my tea. She’s close enough that the heat of her body warms my skin, and scent of my soap on her tickles my nose. She doesn’t smell like me, however. Somehow she’s managed to make the scent entirely her own.

She stirs again, and her thigh presses against my back. Through the covers, the contact is warm and solid.

Lethargy steals over me, settling on my shoulders like a heavy hand. I’m so bloody tired at this point, everything hurts. But sitting here with Sophie, the old resistance to sleep starts to crumble. I can barely lift my teacup to my lips.

Setting the cup down, I hunch over and rest my head in my hands. For the first time in days, I want to sleep. I should get up, go to the guest room.

Sophie makes another small snuffle, and the covers rustle as she turns in dramatic fashion. I glance over my shoulder to find she’s rolled to the middle of the bed, almost as if she’s giving me space to lie down.

A snort escapes me. I’m making excuses. And I don’t bloody care. Sweet relief washes over me as I ease into the bed, slipping under the down cover. I don’t even try to talk myself out of turning off the bedside light.

At my side, Sophie stirs yet again, turning my way. My body stiffens, my breath going sharp. I have no idea what I’ll say. Sorry, love, didn’t see you there in my bed? You’re imagining the whole thing; go back to sleep?

But she doesn’t wake. No. She snuggles up to me as if we sleep this way every night. And damn if my body doesn’t immediately yield to hers—my arm lifting, so she can rest her head on my shoulder, before settling around her and bringing her closer.

Everything within me relaxes. This. This is what I needed. She is soft and fragrant, warm and welcoming. I know if she woke, she’d just laugh in that light way of hers and tell me to go with it, enjoy the moment. So I do.

I close my eyes and allow myself to sleep.

 

* * *

 

Sophie

 

* * *

 

The walk of shame is ever so much more fun when you’re leaving the boss man’s house. My hair, because I fell asleep with it half dry, is a rat’s nest, and that’s being kind. I’ve no makeup, and my eyes look puffy and wan without camouflage. At least I’m wearing my own clothes. Gabriel left them neatly laundered and folded at the foot of the bed.

Gah, the bed. I woke up in his bed, well rested, comfortably warm, and alone. And yet I know he slept with me. At some point during the night, I turned and found myself wrapped in gloriously strong arms, my cheek pressed against a firm chest. And it felt like heaven. So good that I didn’t even question it in my sleepy haze but snuggled in, sighing in contentment when he held me more securely, as if he too reveled in the contact.

But that had been in the dark cover of night, when my brain takes a vacation and the wants of my body hold sway. Now? Now, I’m awake and squinting in the rare London sunlight as I try to sneak into the lobby of my hotel without being seen. It’s too early for me to say I’ve been out and about already, and there’s my hair, my stupid hair. No one is going to overlook this cotton candy crown I’ve got going.

Luckily, the lobby is deserted. Only the concierge is on duty, and she’s not paying me any mind. I breathe a sigh of relief as I ride the elevator up. I want to be annoyed at Gabriel for not being there when I woke, but at least he left me breakfast—a boiled egg, a ginger scone, and a pot of tea on a tray, all covered with a warming cloth. The note pinned on it had instructions to eat it all, as breakfast is the most important meal of the day.

Gabriel Scott, mother hen hiding in a ten-thousand-dollar suit.

I’m snorting my amusement when the elevator doors open, and I come face to face with Rye. Shit.

His brow quirks as he looks me up and down. “Sophie Darling,” he drawls. “Doth my eyes deceive me or are you doing the long walk ‘o shame?”

I push past him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I always look this way.”

“Ridden hard and put to bed wet?”

My steps halt, and I glare at his smugly grinning face. “That is not something you want to say to a woman who can nut you in two seconds flat.”

He winces but doesn’t look very contrite. “Brenna’s always saying I need to learn better manners.”

“You should listen to her.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” He follows me down the hall as I march to my room. “Anyway, I’m all for you getting some. Touring is exhausting. Have your fun when you can, you know?”

The big lug looks so earnest, I give his meaty arm a pat. “Thanks for the advice.”

“So…” He waggles his brows. “Who’s the lucky guy? Or was it a girl? Please say girl. That fantasy will keep me satisfied for weeks.”

“What fantasy?” Whip’s voice comes from behind us, and we both jump.

Jesus, are they all chipper morning people?

“Where the hell did you come from?” Rye asks, clutching his chest.

“My room.” Whip nods to the door we’re standing closest to. The duh is heavily implied. “And you two are making enough noise out here to raise the dead.”

Another door opens, and Brenna’s head pokes out. “What the fuck is this? A hall convention?”

“Whip is right,” Rye says. “The dead are rising.”

Brenna hisses at him, baring her teeth like a vampire.

I take the moment to edge away from them all. My door is so close.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Whip’s cool blue eyes pin me. “You haven’t answered the question.”

“What question?” Brenna pipes up.

“What kind of fantasy Rye is having of Sophie,” Whip says with an evil smile. The fucker. I now know who the instigator of the group is.

Rye scowls at him as Brenna’s happy face falls flat.

Rye gives Whip a not-so-gentle punch on the shoulder. “We were talking about Sophie hooking up with a girl. I doubt I’m the only one who’d find that fantasy hot.” His gaze lands on Brenna.

A flush hits her cheeks but she shrugs. “Sophie is definitely fantasy worthy.”

Well, okay then.

They all turn to me, and Brenna gives me a kind smile. “But her sex life is none of our business.”

“Like that’s going to stop us,” Whip says with a laugh. He nudges me. “I’m kidding, Soph. Run while you can.”