I stretch, feeling the pleasant ache in my muscles, and let myself remember.
RJ's mouth on me.
RJ's hands.
RJ inside me, making me feel things I didn't know I could feel.
We'd barely left this bed, only emerging for food before tumbling back into each other.
But now the bed is cold on his side, and when I listen, the basement is silent.
I find a note on the pillow beside me, written in cramped handwriting:
Perimeter check. Didn't want to wake you. Come find me when you're up. -R
I shower quickly, throw on leggings and an oversized sweater, and grab my iPad.
I've been neglecting Greer's deadline, and if I don't get some real work done today, I'm going to be in trouble.
The basement feels too quiet, too isolated.
I need people.
Noise.
Distraction from the way my body keeps replaying every touch, every kiss, every whispered word from yesterday.
I head upstairs into the main area, and as usual it’s alive with energy.
Prospects are scattered around—Bodul behind the bar, Hakon mopping the floors, Aren doing something with a laptop in the corner.
The big leather sectional near the windows is empty, bathed in the kind of natural light that's perfect for detail work.
I claim it, curling up with my iPad and stylus, and lose myself in the designs.
Greer's collection is almost finished.
Twelve pieces, all building on the personal work I showed her in Dublin.
I just need to complete the final two—a structured coat with unexpected draping and a gown with intricate back seaming—and then the technical flats for production.
I'm deep in the gown's construction when a shadow falls over my screen.
"Whatcha working on?" I look up to find Bjorn grinning down at me, his twin Njal right behind him.
Kraken and Magnolia's sons, my childhood partners in crime, the closest thing I have to brothers besides blood.
They're both massive, built like their father with broad shoulders and arms that could crush skulls.
But their mother's mischievous streak shines through in their matching grins, the twinkle in their eyes that says they're always up to something.
"Fashion stuff," I say. "You wouldn't understand."
"Ouch." Bjorn clutches his chest dramatically. "She wounds me."
"She's always been mean to us," Njal agrees, dropping onto the couch beside me. He's close, the way we've always sat—shoulder to shoulder, comfortable. "Remember when she put hot sauce in our cereal?"
"You deserved it. You cut my Barbie's hair."
