“I’ll bring you a plate,” Sloane said, then headed out of the bedroom.
Alone again, Jamie slid off the bed and took in the room. Rich mahogany furniture. Sharp angles softened by morning light.
His fingers curled into the fabric of his jacket sleeve, grounding himself. William’s voice tried to elbow its way back into his thoughts, but Jamie pushed it aside. Sorry, trauma, you'll have to take a number. Current crisis has the floor.
He moved to the window, the scenery stretching far and green, like something from a travel brochure titled “Places You Can’t Afford Even in Your Dreams, Peasant.”
The room came into focus in slow, careful pieces. Warm wood floors. A navy rug large enough to bankrupt him. A dresser that looked handcrafted, the kind of thing rich people pretended they “picked up at a local artisan market,” when everyone knew it had been delivered by a truck with three guys named Steve who all wore the same cologne. The bed frame was solid, dark, expensive—but not flashy. Classic, like the man who owned it.
He rubbed at the sore spot on his upper arm. The ache answered immediately.
His gaze slid to the nightstand. A single book lay open face-down. It wasn’t a thriller. Something quieter. Literary. He couldn’t make out the title from here, but the bookmark looked well-used. A small dish of loose change and a watch sat beside it. No mess. No clutter. No evidence of someone who often brought strangers home.
Jamie’s pulse ticked. Maybe that was good or maybe it was bad. It was hard to decide.
He moved toward the window, tugging the curtain back with two fingers like he expected sirens and flashing lights below. Instead, pale morning light revealed mountains in the distance—layered slopes stretching far enough to make him forget his panic for a heartbeat. The view alone was worth a year of rent. Fresh air slipped in through the cracked pane, carrying pine and something crisp he couldn’t name.
Fantastic. Not only had he made questionable life choices, but he’d also made them in a different zip code.
His gaze drifted to a framed photo on the dresser. Not a person, thank every deity in the phonebook. That would’ve been too intimate. Instead, a landscape shot of the mountains in winter light with clean lines and a calm composition. The kind of photo that told stories without words.
Another photo leaned behind it, half-hidden like a secret meant to be discovered. A golden retriever mid-leap through snow, joyful chaos captured in perfect focus. Jamie smiled before catching himself. The dog looked happy, like the kind of pet owned by a man who knew how to take care of things.
He swallowed.
That…wasn’t helping.
The house hummed faintly. He heard faraway voices that floated from down the hall, but was too muffled to make out. Then more footsteps, only they weren’t coming toward him. It was just movement. The place felt alive, busy in the quiet way big houses were in the morning.
Jamie’s fingers trailed along the edge of the dresser, touching the smooth wood, noting the absence of dust. Everything here had a place. Everything was cared for. Including, apparently, drunk strangers who couldn’t remember how they’d arrived. He cocked his head and listened to the sound drifting up from below. The faint rattle of pans, maybe. The aroma of something warm brushed the air. A mixture of butter, and cinnamon, making his stomach tighten in response.
He circled the room slowly, cataloging details. A watch on the nightstand worth more than his car, leather-bound books, and a hand-carved lamp.
Each discovery was another piece of a puzzle he hadn’t known he wanted to solve, which only deepened the mystery of Sloane. Why, of all the people in that bar, had he brought Jamie home?
When Sloane returned, he would get answers.
Until then, Jamie would hold on to the one thing he still had control over. Not falling completely apart.
A footstep landed in the hall and Jamie’s heart skidded into a stupid, useless flutter. Sloane didn’t knock, just opened the door and stepped quietly into the room, carrying a tray like the world’s most dangerous breakfast server.
“Hope you’re not allergic to carbs,” Sloane said, something like a smile flickering his mouth. Instead of waiting for an answer, he nudged the door wider with his shoulder and crossed to the bed, all careful steps and quiet confidence.
“Carbs are basically my religion.” Jamie eyed the food with the reverence of the deeply hungover. “Though I draw the line at worshipping bagels. They’re too holy.”
A soft huff escaped Sloane.
Stop staring at his shoulders. Act like a normal person who doesn’t notice things.
“Someone downstairs made enough for an army.” Sloane handed him a plate. “Figured you could help me make a dent.” He lifted a napkin roll, flicked it open, and handed Jamie a fork.
Their fingers met, a brush of warm skin and calluses. Jamie’s pulse took the express elevator to panic. He focused on the fork, the food, anything but the way Sloane’s presence seemed to fill the room without trying.
On his plate were scrambled eggs, stacked toast, thick-cut bacon. Some kind of jam sparkled inside a small dish on the tray, and there was even a tiny glass of orange juice alongside a mug of coffee. The scent of it rolled up, sharp and delicious.
“So this is your place?” Jamie asked between bites, the eggs practically dissolving on his tongue. Whoever cooked these deserved a medal. Or a shrine. “Because if you tell me this is an elaborate Airbnb situation, I’m going to need therapy.”
“It’s my place.” Sloane’s voice carried that same easy confidence from last night. “Family house, technically. Big enough that everyone has their space.”
