Made in Manhattan

* * *

Violet woke up with an uncomfortable crick in her neck and an instant awareness that she wasn’t in her bedroom. There were no silk sheets. No soft down blanket. She was wearing a dress instead of her usual nightgown, and…

There was a man beneath her head, a dog curled up in her lap.

She went still at the realization, instinctively not wanting to wake either of them until she got her bearings.

She felt the steady thud of his heartbeat beneath her palm, felt the comforting softness of the worn fabric of a T-shirt against her cheek.

Cain.

The sleep fog cleared, and the night’s events came back to her. Coming here and finding her dog. The wine. The action movie binge. The glut of pasta. She’d had a little wine, he’d had a few beers, and they’d simply… hung out.

Talked when they’d felt like it. Sat in silence when they’d felt like it. She’d remembered getting drowsy, feeling more content than she had in years…

She’d fallen asleep. On a strange man’s couch.

Except he wasn’t strange, he was becoming… important.

The TV was off now, the room silent and still, and Violet felt like she could hear every heartbeat, his and hers.

Coco shifted sleepily in her lap, and Violet stroked a hand over the dog’s back, but otherwise didn’t move. Not yet. Cain’s arm had come around Violet in his sleep, his hand resting heavily on her waist, as though he’d reached for her instinctively and then held her close.

It was all too easy to picture waking up like this every morning.

Jarred by the realization, she eased away from Cain, carefully lifting his arm so she could slip from beneath it. Coco gave her a protesting, indignant look and stood, shifting from Violet’s lap to Cain’s, where she curled up once more.

Cain didn’t awake fully, but must have sensed Coco’s presence, because the hand that had been holding Violet close moved to settle protectively over the little dog. Violet nearly whimpered at the cuteness.

Standing, she padded carefully over the wood floor on stockinged feet. Violet picked up her shoes and pulled her phone out of her purse to check the time.

4:45 a.m. Much closer to the time she usually got up than the time she generally went to bed. Her alarm would be going off at 6:00.

Violet carried her shoes to the door, planning to put them on once outside his apartment, so the click of her high heels wouldn’t wake him up.

She turned back to look at Cain and Coco, wishing the man had a throw blanket she could cover him with when she left. Violet made a mental note to get him one.

His features were softer when he slept. Most people’s features were, she supposed, but it was more pronounced with someone as guarded and masculine as Cain. With his long, curly lashes resting along his cheeks, hiding the usual harsh cynicism in his eyes, Cain seemed almost angelic, albeit of the Lucifer variety.

His hair had come loose from its tie, with strands framing his strong jawline, brushing his shoulders. Her gaze shifted again, this time to his beard. Not for the first time, she wondered how it felt. Prickly? Scratchy? Smooth?

Violet bit her lip as she realized this might be her only chance to find out. It would be horribly intrusive, touching someone as they slept without their knowing, and yet…

She took a deep breath and walked back to him. She slowly reached out, her hand coming closer and closer to his face until the pads of her fingers lightly touched his cheek.

She froze, waiting to see if he’d wake, but he didn’t stir. Violet moved her hand softly, finding the texture of his beard was different than she’d expected. It was soft, almost silky when she slid her fingers down toward his jaw but turned prickly when she dragged them lightly upward against the direction of hair growth.

Research completed, Violet ordered herself to pick up her dog and leave. Instead, she stayed where she was, her hand on his face in a light caress.

Long, strong fingers closed around her wrist, and Violet gasped, her breath coming out on a whoosh.

Her gaze flew to Cain’s. He blinked twice, his brown eyes still soft with sleep. She waited for his anger to register, even as her brain scrambled for a plausible explanation as to why she was touching his face in his sleep, when he was most vulnerable, like a total weirdo.

The anger never came, though. Instead, he remained perfectly still, her wrist still locked in his grip, her hand cupping his cheek. She wanted to know what he was thinking. Wanted to know whatever went on behind those guarded, dark eyes of his. Wanted to know him.

“You need help getting home?” he asked into her hand, his voice rough with sleep.