Page 114 of Hate You More

“I thought I was dreaming.” His voice sounds rusty as he reaches out to trail a fingertip across my shoulder. “But I opened my eyes and there you were.”

I hear no regrets. No expectations either. Please. “Here I am.”

“How are you feeling?”

I stretch a little, relishing a dozen new muscle aches and the satisfaction in his gaze at the knowledge that he is the orchestrator.

“I think the word is replete.” No freaking out over here. No overthinking to see either.

His mouth curls. “That’s a good one.”

“And you?”

“Good.” Muscles bunch and flex as he stretches out along the bed. Snuggling closer as the tension bleeds, and I bite my tongue against the question: Shouldn’t this feel weird?

Maybe it doesn’t, because we broke to raid the fridge partway through . . . proceedings. We munched on leftover lo mein and ice cream and guzzled down cans of water. He wore those thin blue shorts, and I wore his shirt, and everything felt normal and so unweird, I had to ask, “Is it just me?”

His thumb moves absently along my collarbone, stopping, then starting again. “Last night.” I guess he’s trying to arrange the words. “I’m glad it happened,” he adds. “It was fucking amazing, Clara. You are—”

“It was.” I cut him off, because it won’t help to know what he thinks of me. I inhale, exhale, then repeat the things that have been swirling through my head. “But I have enough on my plate right now without any complications.”

“Like a husband? Or are we talking as a hookup.”

“Either. Both. I have a life to rebuild. A world I need to rediscover my place in. And you have a life waiting for you too. That whole captain-of-industry thing, steering the helm. Making those shareholders billions.” My words are as light as the finger I draw down his chest. “We said three months.”

He doesn’t correct me but lifts my hand before it dips under the sheet, pressing his teeth over the felonious fingertip. There’s a playfulness in his eyes. Affection. Also restraint. “You know you’re not alone, though, right?”

That earns him a small smile, though I’m well aware it could be the sex talking. But I want to succeed by my own merit. I’m tired of people trying to manage me. “We can’t do this again.”

“Snuggle?”

He is a pretty good snuggler.

“I don’t regret it,” he says.

“Me either.” And that’s maybe the problem.

“I do have a question for you, though. Last night, when you came, did you cry out . . . better than gummy bears?”

“Maybe you need your ears tested,” I answer with a giggle.

“A fetish, huh?”

My giggles die away, and we stay like that for a while. It’s only after the moment has fully settled that I find myself turning onto my front, the sheet caught tight under my arms. For modesty’s sake. Hands under my cheek, my eyes climb to meet his.

“What is it?”

“Your friends, did you notice how they didn’t ask me what I do?”

“What or who?” So much suggestion in his tone.

“I walked right into that one. I meant for a living or whatever. I mean, didn’t Hannah have anything to say after seeing me serve those canapés?” She can’t have failed to have seen Troy hustle me out of the place.

“She thinks you did it as a way to see me.”

“Really?” I give a chuckle. “God, I’m desperate. I guess it explains how she wasn’t exactly looking to make me her best friend.”

“Hannah’s not really a girl’s girl. She’s more like one of the guys. As for what you do with your days, I guess they just thought . . . trust fund?”