Page 47 of Sleep

Too much internalised fear, she’d claimed. Fear of things that didn’t exist. My fear was very real, thank you very much. Fear of failure. Fear of being called out. Fear of losing my father’s life’s work. Fear of people discovering that I wasn’t actually that good at what I did. I merely pretended to be.

Fear of hiding. Fear of other people knowing how much I hid. Fear of being me.

I had words for it, all right. Just no words I could say out loud.

“Rest,” they murmured, turning towards me, tightening their arms around me. It was silly how good it felt. Even when only partly awake, they still held me.

Not a hugger, they’d said. I smiled, replaying those words as I watched the light hit the tops of the tall buildings, shards of it dancing on the walls as it bounced between the mirrors. The windowpanes in this penthouse were supposed to be self-dimming to block out the light. I didn’t mind it, not when the morning slowly rose right before my eyes.

I’d never slept in this room. I might try to now, as long as they were here. The panic from earlier had exhausted me, the dull ache in my chest still present—muscle memory reminding me how my body misbehaved. Still, maybe this was the right way forward, having someone with me to lessen the impact and hold me through those moments when I couldn’t hold myself together.

Someone. Not just someone. I wanted Donovan with me. Mabel. Pickle.

Smiling, I rested my hand on the arm slung casually over my chest. So, we both moved in our sleep. Ha. I’d got a few hours in. More hours had passed since, so perhaps I’d drifted off again for a little while, which was not something I usually managed. I didn’t feel refreshed, but I felt…okay, better than I normally did, even with someone who snored and rolled onto their back, dragging that lovely arm away.

I’d expected them to be different, less curvy, but Donovan had one of those defined chests with rounded pectoral muscles and zero body hair—not surprising since I couldn’t make out any stubble on their chin. Cheekbones to die for. Bee-stung lips. Strong shoulders. A firm stomach. The duvet was covering the rest. I wanted to tug it up, ensure they were warm, but the view was just too tempting.

Touch. I shouldn’t touch, and didn’t, even though we’d pretty much full-on-body-hugged throughout the night. Now it was morning. I’d usually have a few hours’ work under my belt by the time the sky looked like that, and here I was, still in bed. Those words felt strange even thinking them in my head.

Who would have thought? Jonny Templar in a bed.

“I like this,” they said softly, stretching, their hand coming to a gentle rest on my head, fingers combing through my hair. “Can’t believe we…you know.” A muffled yawn.

“Turns out you’re a bit of a cuddler.”

“Says the guy who pretty much plastered himself to me. I blame you. Had no choice in the matter.”

“And?” I smiled. They did too and slowly leaned over and kiss my forehead.

God, I liked this so much my eyes were stinging, or perhaps my emotions were still running on adrenaline.

“Can I ask you something?” they said, a finger stroking along my jaw, a small gesture that almost felt too much, too intimate, which was madness when our legs were tangled together.

“Yes,” I breathed out, still struggling with those pesky emotions, the ones I was usually so adept at keeping at bay.

Emotions are dangerous, my father had always drilled into me. Don’t let your opponent sense any. Fear, danger, even glee? All a danger when it comes to sealing a deal. You need to hold all that on the inside, out of sight, son. All of it. Never let them see you lose control.

I had abided by that advice ever since. In business, I was a blank canvas. Nerves of cool, blank steel, Kopetski had once said of me with admiration in his voice. I hadn’t felt it. What others saw as strength was often followed by me taking a swift detour to the men’s room to part with the contents of my stomach. I had no nerves.

Surround yourself with people who fight for you, even when you’re not in the room. I’d read that somewhere, no idea where now, but it fitted right into my business ethos.

I had Jenny. I had my parents. And now I had Mabel Donovan, whom I wanted here more than anything or anyone else. Would they fight for me? Even when I was out of sight? I’d fight for them. I already was.

They moved again, tucking me closer to their chest. My forehead was right there against their neck. I traced a fingertip along their jaw, slipping down into that little hollow, then up over their Adam’s apple as they swallowed. They were…perfection. That jawline, those lips. Their nose…my mother would have described it as being slightly too large for one’s face. She was absolutely wrong.

“What are you laughing about?”

“That I even like your nose.”

“Oh, Jonny.”

“What were you going to ask? You never did.”

“Well.” They stroked my hair back from my forehead. It was such a simple touch, but it felt intimate. Almost too intimate. “I was going to ask what it is that you…like…about me.”

“Everything,” I breathed out before I could control my mouth. “I like who you are. That you’re so kind. The way I can talk to you about anything, and you don’t treat me like I’m anything I’m not. It’s a comfort, just being around you.”

“Same,” they admitted. “This should be really weird, but it isn’t, which makes the whole thing…” They laughed. I loved that sound and the way they smiled, even when they were doing so at the ceiling. “Jonny?”

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