I finish up the tea tray and carry it to my bedroom. I should call Sophie down here, have tea in the relative formality of my living room. But I won’t lie to myself; I want to keep her in my bedroom, where her scent will linger long after she’s gone, and maybe I’ll be able to breathe a little easier for a while longer.
Somewhere over the Atlantic, at thirty-five thousand feet, she wrapped herself around me, and my brain decided to equate her scent, the sound of her voice, the feel of her skin, with comfort.
I have no idea how I’m supposed to dissuade myself of this notion, and I am not yet ready to try. So we’ll have tea in the sitting area of my room. And then I’ll take her back to the hotel, whether I want to or not.
The tea cups rattle slightly as I angle myself to slip into the bedroom. It’s too quiet. I expected her chatter as soon as I entered. The reason for the quiet is soon obvious: she’s asleep on my bed, her pale hair haloed on my pillow. A proverbial Goldilocks making herself comfortable in an unknown lair.
I set the tray down and move to her side. She sleeps the way a child might, sprawled pell-mell and thoroughly invested in the act. She’s clutching one of my pillows to her chest, half on her stomach, her plump arse in the air, legs spread.
“Sophie,” I murmur, halfheartedly. I don’t really want to wake her. It seems cruel given the smudges under her eyes.
She doesn’t move. Doesn’t even flinch.
Gingerly, I sit on the side of the bed. In sleep, her expression is somewhat perplexed, and I wonder if she’s dreaming. What would this woman’s dreams be like? I imagine something Seussian with pink trees, whohoopers and trumtookas, and I fight a grin.
Outside, the rain keeps tapping on the windows. The soft sounds of Sophie sleeping fill the void. She’s a mouth breather, and each breath she exhales stirs a lock of hair hanging over her lip.
With the tip of my finger, I brush the hair away and give waking her one more weak try. “Chatty girl?”
A muffled snort answers me, and her knee draws up as if she’s cold. With a resigned sigh, I tug the duvet out from under her feet and cover her. She immediately snuggles down, her features smoothing.
Reaching for my cup, I stay by her side and drink my tea. She’s close enough that the heat of her body warms my skin, and scent of my soap on her tickles my nose. She doesn’t smell like me, however. Somehow she’s managed to make the scent entirely her own.
She stirs again, and her thigh presses against my back. Through the covers, the contact is warm and solid.
Lethargy steals over me, settling on my shoulders like a heavy hand. I’m so bloody tired at this point, everything hurts. But sitting here with Sophie, the old resistance to sleep starts to crumble. I can barely lift my teacup to my lips.
Setting the cup down, I hunch over and rest my head in my hands. For the first time in days, I want to sleep. I should get up, go to the guest room.
Sophie makes another small snuffle, and the covers rustle as she turns in dramatic fashion. I glance over my shoulder to find she’s rolled to the middle of the bed, almost as if she’s giving me space to lie down.
A snort escapes me. I’m making excuses. And I don’t bloody care. Sweet relief washes over me as I ease into the bed, slipping under the down cover. I don’t even try to talk myself out of turning off the bedside light.
At my side, Sophie stirs yet again, turning my way. My body stiffens, my breath going sharp. I have no idea what I’ll say. Sorry, love, didn’t see you there in my bed? You’re imagining the whole thing; go back to sleep?
But she doesn’t wake. No. She snuggles up to me as if we sleep this way every night. And damn if my body doesn’t immediately yield to hers—my arm lifting, so she can rest her head on my shoulder, before settling around her and bringing her closer.
Everything within me relaxes. This. This is what I needed. She is soft and fragrant, warm and welcoming. I know if she woke, she’d just laugh in that light way of hers and tell me to go with it, enjoy the moment. So I do.
I close my eyes and allow myself to sleep.
* * *
Sophie
* * *
The walk of shame is ever so much more fun when you’re leaving the boss man’s house. My hair, because I fell asleep with it half dry, is a rat’s nest, and that’s being kind. I’ve no makeup, and my eyes look puffy and wan without camouflage. At least I’m wearing my own clothes. Gabriel left them neatly laundered and folded at the foot of the bed.