Page 53 of Cast to be Mine

18

MICAH

Irolled over, expecting to find the other side of the bed empty. It wasn’t.

Grace was still there, curled up on her side, blonde hair fanned across my pillow. Her breathing was slow and even, lips slightly parted. She looked peaceful. Beautiful. Like something I’d conjured from a dream and somehow managed to drag into reality.

I propped myself up on one elbow and just watched her for a moment. Part of me had expected her to bolt in the middle of the night, leaving me with nothing but rumpled sheets and the memory of her taste on my lips. That was what a smart person would have done. What we both probably should have done.

But she’d stayed.

The events of last night came flooding back. The way she’d felt in my arms. The sounds she’d made when I was inside her. Round two. Round three. At some point we’d raided the kitchen for water and leftover pizza before tumbling back into bed for round four.

My body stirred at the memories. A few muscles protested one of the positions, but I’d heal. My brain was already throwing up red flags.

What the hell had I been thinking?

Grace Stone was my lead actress. My employee, technically. It was a minefield. If anyone found out, it could tank the entire production. The studio would have a field day. The press would turn our movie into a punchline.

And yet, looking at her lying there in my bed, I couldn’t bring myself to regret it.

She was incredible. Not just in bed, though she was definitely incredible in bed, but as a person. I was impressed with the fact that she’d chosen to be Grace Stone instead of coasting on her father’s name. I understood that choice better than anyone.

Her eyes fluttered open, and for a second she looked confused. Then her gaze found mine, and a slow smile spread across her face.

“Morning,” she said, her voice husky with sleep.

“Morning.”

“You’re staring at me.”

“Can you blame me? I woke up to a fallen angel in my bed. I’m gobsmacked.”

She laughed, stretching like a cat. The sheet slipped down, revealing the curve of her shoulder, and I had to physically restrain myself from reaching for her again.

“What time is it?” she asked.

I checked my phone. “Almost nine. Call time’s not until noon, remember?”

She sat up, pulling the sheet with her. Her hair was a disaster. Her makeup was smeared. She’d never looked more beautiful. “I should probably get going.”

“Stay for breakfast first.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“I make a mean omelet.”

She studied me for a moment, then nodded. “Okay. Breakfast.”

I threw on a pair of sweats and headed to the kitchen, leaving her to get dressed. By the time she emerged, I had eggs cracking into a bowl and coffee brewing.

She hopped up onto one of the bar stools, watching me work. I slid a cup of coffee in front of her.

“So,” she said. “About last night.”

“What about it?”

“We probably need to talk about it.”