Page 95 of A Million To Fall

I’m in so much trouble.

thirty

Skye

Idon’t remember falling asleep.

I remember staring at the ceiling, trying to convince myself that I don’t feel Boston’s presence just inches away, that I’m not confused as hell.

Then suddenly, my body is submerged in warm water, steam curling lazily around me. I’m in a bathtub, but I’m not alone. Kneeling on the ground next to the tub is Boston. I’m certain of it, even though I can’t see his face. I feel him in the air, in the way my muscles relax and my lips settle into a content smile. We’re mid-conversation about vague things, the sound of his voice settling something restless inside me. He laughs, warm and low, then his hand tucks a damp strand of hair behind my ear. The brief brush of his fingertips against my skin sends a strange little ripple through me.

My eyes flutter open to pale morning light, and while the image of Boston evaporates instantly, that feeling of being held lingers.

For a second, I don’t know what’s worse: the guilt that the dream wasn’t about Archer or the disappointment that it wasn’t real.

Shame creeps in. Does a dream like that make me a cheater? More than what almost happened last night? More than the fact that a not-so-small part of me wanted it to happen?

I turn my head to the left. The spot next to me is empty. Again.

Maybe this time he finally did leave. Came to his senses and decided I’m not worth the trouble. Spoiled, indecisive rich girl who’s using him only for heat and protection. It would probably be better that way. Cleaner. Because last night, I was all too aware of who was here with me—who stayed and who didn’t.

And that’s dangerous. And scary. Almost as scary as the knowledge that when I was asleep, when my mind wasn’t policing my behavior or protecting Archer’s feelings or calculating consequences, my body reached for Boston. No hesitation.

When I finally peel myself off the couch, the house is quiet. I step into the hallway with the water closet. Maybe Boston’s in there, brushing his teeth?

Nothing.

That is, until I walk past the stairs to the second floor. I hear the faintest movement, the shower running, and it’s obscene how relieved I am. He’s still here. He didn’t disappear in the night. He didn’t leave me to wake up alone.

I’m in the kitchen, head in the nearly empty fridge in search of something to eat. It’s slim pickings, which means two things: a trip to a coffee shop and then to the grocery store.

“Whatcha doin’?”

A guttural scream tears from my throat as I jump, then spin around.

There stands Boston, a mere six feet away from me by the counter, and judging by that look on his face—gray eyes wide, breath suspended, his hands raised disarmingly—we managed to scare the shit out of each other just now.

“Oh my god, Boss,” I wince, hand on my heart. “You scared me.”

He composes himself quickly, lips tugging into a grin. “I thought you heard me walk into the kitchen. But you’ll be happy to know that your scream is ferocious. I’m convinced there’s no wildlife to be found within a mile radius of this house.” He chuckles. “This was better than any alarm.”

A welcome laugh escapes me, my muscles relaxing not only with his humor, but with the realization that he doesn’t appear to be angry for how we left things last night.

“You in search of sustenance?”

“Yeah. I’m craving a breakfast burrito, but there’s only two eggs left.”

“Two’s plenty,” he says, stepping in close—too close—and reaching around me for the eggs. His chest brushes my back. Just for a second, but it’s enough to make my body hum.

He grabs the eggs and steps back quickly. “We’ll stretch ‘em.”

“We’ll what?”

“Stretch them.” He cracks them into a bowl. “You got milk?”

I shake my head.

“No biggie. Water works.”