Page 33 of Embrace Me Forever

The living room light is still on, and I find her sprawling on the couch. As I walk closer, I observe the rise and fall of her chest and the slight parting of her lips, from which escape whispers of her breath. Still clutched in her hand is the pencil she’d been using for those endless calculations, its tip resting against a half-filled page. Her face mellows in slumber, the lines of concentration replaced by an almost childlike tranquility.

I stand there for a moment, taking in the quiet beauty of the scene. The responsibility is mine. Her safety, and her family’s, rests squarely on my shoulders.

Yet, the scene unsettles me. There’s something sinister about a woman sleeping on my couch. It isn’t her, nor the furniture. It’s a regret that has taken shape as a haunting image. Flo’s lifeless body on my old couch, the fabric beneath her head stained with her own blood. It erodes my sense of safety and distorts my perception of normalcy. I can’t bear the thought of even a shadow of danger touching Georgia-May.

Every instinct urges me to scoop her into my arms and whisk her to the guest bed, away from my nightmares. But the line between me and her is too delicate, too pivotal to cross. She’s a young, single mother. Watching her pour everything she has into caring for Coco, I see what resilience truly means. With her, the troubles in my life start to feel small. This isn’t about what happened twelve years ago. It’s about the woman in front of me who’s become so unexpectedly important.

I hold back, choosing instead to fetch a pair of blankets from a basket next to the couch. I lay them over her, takingcare not to disturb her. She stirs slightly, murmuring something incomprehensible before settling into a deeper sleep.

The fire is burning low. I adjust the logs, making sure it will last through the night without flaring up or dying out.

I step back, my gaze lingering on Georgia-May. She looks so small, swallowed by cushions, hidden under the covers. By now, I know denying what’s burning inside me is like trying to hold back the tide with a teacup. After everything that happened tonight, I acknowledge my feelings for the woman who has turned from threat to treasure—or at least the beginning of something precious.

“Poppy, up,” I whisper, stooping beside my robotic dog. With instant obedience, she springs to her feet and follows me. At the couch, I send another command. “Poppy, stay.” With her positioned vigilantly near my sleeping guest, anyone daring to intrude will be met with Poppy hurling herself into action, causing an uproar.

Confident that Georgia-May is snug and secure and assuring myself that no harm will come her way—no one will dare aim a gun at her—I retreat to my room.

11

GEORGIA-MAY

I flutter my eyes open. I’m lying belly down, one arm dangling over the couch, with blankets messily shrouding me. How on earth did I shift around in my sleep? I can’t remember a thing.

Then, a pair of puppy eyes captures my gaze.

“Oh, hello there,” I greet Poppy, her whirring tail and the curious tilt of her head stirring a smile in me. Waking up to a robot pet was never on my bucket list, yet here she is, making my morning unexpectedly delightful.

Not far from the mechanical marvel, another figure looms, sporting a different kind of puppy eyes. Undoubtedly human and sinfully tempting, like an espresso shot too bold for the early hours.

“Morning,” Blake says, striding toward me. “I was just about to wake you.”

“Morning,” I rasp, sleepily brushing back a loose strand of hair, a gesture far too casual for waking up in front of such a gorgeous semi-stranger. Yet, in his presence, I find a surprising sense of comfort. Blake, in his well-worn T-shirt and loose track pants, still manages to look disarmingly handsome. His hair istousled, his lids heavy, and his T-shirt hangs off one shoulder, lending him an accidentally seductive disarray.

I check the clock. “I should get ready.”

Rising swiftly, I walk past him before I can succumb to any foolish impulses. The moments just after waking are hardly the time to test my self-control, especially on such scant sleep. I know how he looks, but I don’t know what I look like—most likely far from Sleeping Beauty’s pristine repose and more akin to Rapunzel’s tresses tangled in a century-long slumber.

After a shower, I step out of my room, fully dressed and ready to go. But the moment my eyes land ahead, I freeze, stumbling back.

“Georgia-May, what’s with the dramatics?”

I exhale, brushing off the jolt of adrenaline as Blake steps closer. With his leather jacket and slicked-back hair, he looks more like a biker from a crime drama than, well, himself. “Sorry, I thought you were…someone else.”

He smirks, one brow quirking up. “And here I was, hoping I was unforgettable.”

I bite back a grin. “Maybe ditch the undercover mobster look next time, and I’ll recognize you.”

His laugh is warm, and I try to ignore the fact that my heart’s still racing. For more than one reason.

“It’s my non-chauffeur look,” he adds.

We grab a quick breakfast, then Blake loads my suitcase into the car and shuts the trunk. “Ready to go?” he asks, his eyes crinkling with amusement.

Maybe he’s done this a hundred times for the Hartleys’ guests, but I like to think his smile has something to do with me. Because when I see it that way, it makes me happy he’s here.

“Ready,” I reply.

The ride to the airport is surprisingly smooth. The city is still waking up. Despite the calm, I can feel the undercurrent of hisvigilance, his eyes darting to the mirrors and scanning the road for any potential trouble.

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