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I nodded my cheek against his chest. I was exhausted. “Onward, my wayward prince,” I murmured.
He laughed softly. “Cheeky girl.”
“Exhausted from jet lag and emotion, you’re a lot to handle, you know?”
He shook his head. “Let’s get you to bed, then. I can’t wait to hold you close.”
3
Nash
The night proved the best and most uncomfortable of my life. I held Aya snuggled against me. Her soft breath bathing my neck and chest relaxed me fully, and I fell into a deep, dreamless abyss—until I moved my swollen and bruised hand, anyway.
I glanced at the clock, surprised to see it was after five in the morning. I never slept so many hours in a row.
My hand throbbed, but my body remained content, my mind charged and ready to face what lay ahead. I curled my good hand around Aya, still shocked she’d relented to sleeping with me.
She belonged in my bed. She always had. Now I just had to ensure she stayed here, with me.
That might prove tricky. She had a life, a career. I realized she might not be able to stay with me. I’d be a selfish ass if I asked her to uproot her life just so I could continue to record and tour.
There must be a solution, especially considering the financial resources and influence she and I possessed. We just needed time to tease it out.
I rolled onto my back, tugging her close as I went back over our conversation from last night.
The continuity of my memory since I’d gone to rehab shocked me. For so long, I’d lived with a perforated snapshot of my days. Now, being able to go over each and every moment, to relish the tiny details, seemed odd. Refreshing, but unusual.
Aya’s tortured expression was where I fixated. I never wanted to see that look on her face again, and I definitely didn’t want to be the reason for it. This meant honesty about everything, even the hard shit. That would be the only way to keep her around.
I ran my fingers through her hair, enjoying the faint, familiar scent of her shampoo and the weighty softness.
“That feels good,” she murmured. “Don’t stop.”
“Whatever you want.”
She climbed atop my chest, stacking her palms on my left pec and meeting my gaze. “Whatever?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Careful there, big daddy. You don’t know what I’ll ask for.”
Warmth settled in my chest. “Doesn’t matter. I’ll give it to you.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Your platinum records.”
“Yours.”
Both eyebrows went up. “This house? Your money? The awesome tour bus I know you must have somewhere?”
I threaded my fingers at the nape of her neck, pinning her to me. “Yours.”
She scoffed.
“You don’t get it, Aya. I’ve been a zombie for years.”
She dropped her gaze. “I stopped making friends, stopped connecting with people. They call me the Ice Queen.”
“You’re not icy or cold, Ay. You survived. My therapist said that takes more guts than giving in or getting high. Survival is what we do until we’re ready to heal. And we only heal when we feel safe.”
