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“Okay,” he said as he finished up the last one. “Work done, and it’s barely nine. Do you want to kick me out yet? Or chill and watch a show together?” He lifted his gaze from the phone, a grin sparking. “I think they have Netflix.”
He waited for her response. Was she going to snatch the bait, make some “Netflix and chill” joke that he could riff off of? That might be a way to get them back where they’d been earlier. Start a little double-entendre’ing that could lead to flirting that could lead to…
“D?” he said. She was sitting sideways on the love seat, facing the other way, laptop in place. One hand lolled on the floor. Chris scrambled to his feet.
“Daphne?”
Her lips parted in the softest snore.
Chris laughed under his breath. Seems she’d already made her plans for the evening, and he couldn’t blame her. She must be exhausted—early flight plus the roller coaster of the meetings this afternoon.
The question was: What to do with her? She was very soundly asleep and not in the most comfortable spot, with her feet dangling over the end.
Did he leave her and slip out? Did he carry her to bed? What if she woke up while he was putting her to bed and thought he had something else in mind?
Do you have something else in mind?
Of course not.
Then don’t worry about it. She knows you better than that.
True.
Yep, so maybe you should listen to me more often.
He ignored the voice and walked to the bed, where he pulled back the covers. Then he gently carried her over. She barely stirred. He set her down, pulled up the covers, and stood there, looking down at her.
Don’t make this creepy.
He wasn’t trying to make it creepy. He was taking a moment to look at her, so deeply asleep and peaceful, her dark hair spread over the pillow.
He bent over and very softly kissed her temple. “Sweet dreams, D,” he murmured. Then he slipped back to his own room.
DAPHNE
Daphne had dreamed of Chris. Floating in that semi-lucid state before waking, she wasn’t quite certain of the specifics of the dream, only that she wanted to slide back there and stay awhile. There’d been a bottle of scotch and a very sturdy tree and brownie batter, and she had no idea how all that had fit together—or if she wanted to know—but it didn’t matter because there’d also been Chris. Which was all any dream needed to make perfect sense.
When she couldn’t quite find the dream again, her brain surfaced but lingered there, writing its own version, because that was what she did. She told herself stories, and this one was still ephemeral, woven of sight and sound and smell and feeling. Mostly feeling. The feeling of his body against hers, his mouth against hers, the crushing need to get closer to him. The rest was a delicious jumble—a sliver of stubbled jawline, a whiff of peaty scotch, a soft laugh, a flash of his green eyes, the smell of evergreen trees, a low groan at her ear. She groaned back, pressing into the pillow, imagining it was him, his hands running down her back—
The buzz of her phone sent her flailing. One moment of confusion, followed by one very sharp surge of annoyance.
Goddamn it, Lawrence. If that’s you again—
Except Lawrence’s calls forwarded to Chris’s phone. She looked to see a name she didn’t recognize.
Sakura Mori.
Who was…?
Her new publicist.
Daphne fumbled to answer, only for her foggy brain to realize it was actually a text.
Sakura: Hey, so I can’t get hold of Zane, and I have both your numbers. Are we still on for breakfast?
With a groan, Daphne started to type back and say yes, they were still on and they’d see Sakura at nine. Then she saw the bedside clock.
9:15
