“And you’re not going to tell me his name?”
“I’m amazed you haven’t looked him up already.”
“Why would I do that? I don’t want to learn some bullshit story about your past that some journalist has made up. The only person I want to hear it from is you.”
Stunned by his words, I just stare at him. Into his kind eyes. They twinkle in the most alluring way under the city lights.
A messy ball of emotion crawls up my throat, and my eyes burn with tears.
“Thank you,” I force past the lump.
He shakes his head. “I haven’t done anything."
“You have. You’ve done so much more than you can ever understand.” I reach out, my hand finding his. Heat rushes up my arm, but I don’t pull away. Instead, I squeeze him tighter. “And I’ll forever be grateful.”
31
FREYA
Ihave a weird night’s sleep. I’m in what is arguably the most comfortable bed in the world, and I should have been sleeping like a baby, like when I was in Cole’s bed the other night. But I find myself tossing and turning most of the night.
I can’t settle or switch my brain off.
I don’t know if it’s talking about my life with Rowan, or just being in Cole’s home, but sleep mostly eludes me. And when my alarm goes off the next morning, I’m waiting for it with bleary eyes and heavy limbs.
But the tiredness doesn’t stop me from throwing the covers off and shuffling through to the bathroom. The thought of getting into Cole’s kitchen and fixing us both breakfast spurs me on. It’s been so long since I’ve had something to get up for in the morning. I really hope I never lose this feeling again.
My fitful night’s sleep is more than obvious when I look in the mirror and find dark, puffy eyes staring back at me. I don’t want to plaster my face in makeup, but I really need to do something to hide it.
I do the best job I can with my concealer before pulling on a pair of leggings and a hoodie I bought before crashing here the other night.
With my hair pulled back into a messy bun, I slip out of the guest room, pour myself a fresh glass of orange juice, and set about getting everything ready.
Cole’s bedroom door is open as I pass, but there’s no sign of him. I assume he’s in his gym, or hiding behind one of the other closed doors that I’ve yet to open. They taunt me every day, but this is his home, and I’d never disrespect him by looking inside without his permission.
It’s almost an hour later when he emerges fresh from the shower and dressed, ready to head to the arena.
“Good morning, Whirlwind,” he says softly as he takes in the disaster that is his kitchen.
When I first started, I was very conscious of the mess I made while I was working. But as time has gone on, I’ve reverted back to my old self, and there are pots and pans and utensils everywhere.
I cringe, taking in the sight of his pretty kitchen covered in my chaos, but when I glance at him, all I find is amused eyes and a smile.
“Good morning. Did you sleep well?”
“I did. You?”
Uh.
“Your bed is incredibly comfortable.”
His eyes flash with mischief. “My bed?”
“Y-Your guest bed. You know what I mean,” I say in a rush.
“And there I was thinking you’d snuck into the wrong bed again without me noticing.”
Despite the fact that I know it’s not true, embarrassment rolls through me.
