Page 82 of That Reunited Feeling

We reach my floor, and the doors chime and slide open exactly as they’re supposed to.

“Oh.” I stick my arm out to keep them open just in case they change their minds again. “That’s weird. Thanks for coming, though.”

“Just a glitch, I guess,” Carlton says with a shrug. “Have a good night, Mr. Dashwood.”

Oh, I most definitely intend to. “Thanks. You too.”

The doors close behind me, and I head down the hall and around the corner into the living area. “So I was thinking maybe we could leave the food for later and?—”

And there she is, lying on the sofa, fast asleep, two-thirds of a glass of white wine on the end table.

She is spark out. The jet lag, the interview stress, and probably the general exhaustion of working and raising a kid single-handedly has sent her into the deepest of sleeps.

I drop the takeout on the kitchen counter, wander over, and kneel by her face.

Fuck, she’s beautiful. Her fair eyelashes flutter gently, her lips are relaxed and ever so slightly apart, and her chest rises and falls with her heavy, sleepy breath.

I could wake her up and make slow, beautiful love to her right here on the sofa. But when was the last time she was able to sleep like this? To cast off her worries knowing they’re all being taken care of—that Dylan is in the safest of safe hands, that she’s earning enough money to set them up in a great new life, and that she’s in an exciting new city, in a whole other country, with so much to look forward to?

When I saw her that first morning on the landing, she had the air of someone who hadn’t relaxed in years. The tension clenching her whole being was obvious, even though I was majorly distracted with keeping my junk in check.

To wake her now would be cruel. No matter how mind-blowing of an orgasm I intended to give her.

While the sofa is comfortable, the bed would be comfier. But if I put her in mine, I’d never have the willpower to leave her to rest.

I get to my feet and gaze down at her ridiculously sexy stretched-out form. I can’t help but chuckle to myself at the irony of the situation. But I’ve waited seventeen years. I can wait one more day.

“Okay, sleepyhead,” I whisper. “The guest room it is.”

I slide one hand under her shoulders, one behind her knees, and ease her off the sofa.

As I carry her to the guest room, she snuggles into my chest like I’m her favorite pillow. That makes me the luckiest man alive. And the most frustrated.

I kick back the duvet on the bed and lay her down.

“Okay, then.” Jeans and a sweater won’t make the most comfortable pajamas. But if I take them off, she’ll definitely wake up, and then all my good intentions will go out the window and I’ll keep her from this rare chance to get the rest she so badly needs. “You’re sleeping in those clothes.”

I pull the duvet over her and lean down to brush a gentle kiss on her forehead.

“Night night,” she murmurs, barely moving her lips.

A smile that reaches from my left ear to my right, and into the very core of my being, spreads across my face. “Night night.”

23

HANNAH

Is this what jet lag always feels like? How do people who travel all the time cope?

I’ve been half awake—no, more like a quarter awake—for a little while. But even the idea of getting out of bed feels like trying to compete in an Olympic sport with zero training and no knowledge of the rules.

I did get up at some point in the night, though, woken by a full bladder. That’s when I discovered Tom had been chivalrous enough not to undress me, and I fumbled my way out of my sweaty clothes.

Since the prospect of ever moving again feels like the loftiest of ambitions, this might be where I live now—in a perpetual state of semi-slumber in Tom’s guest room. Perhaps someone could fly Dylan out to visit me on birthdays and Christmas. He’d have to open my gifts for me because I’ll never be able to hold up these lead pipes I now have for arms for long enough to do it myself.

I’m assuming this is the guest room, anyway. It’s definitely not the huge one with the river view I was transfixed byyesterday. That was yesterday, right? Yeah, it has to be—there’s light leaking around the curtains. Or maybe I’ve slept for a full thirty-six hours and it’s almost time to go home.

Movement in the far corner of the room catches my barely open eye. I roll onto my side to face it as Tom appears around the opening door, carrying a tray.

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