Heat blooms low in my stomach, my pulse skipping hard enough that I have to look away.
Remi chuckles. “Told you.”
I swallow, my chest suddenly too full, my heart beating a little too fast.
Under My Skin
Langston
She’s curled against me like she belongs here.
Sabrina’s tucked into my chest, one arm slung across my ribs, her hair spread over my shoulder like a spill of fire. Her breathing is slow now—deep, even—the kind of sleep that only comes when someone feels safe enough to let go.
I stare at the ceiling, one arm wrapped tight around her waist, the other resting at her back, fingers splayed like I’m afraid she’ll disappear if I loosen my hold.
Tonight went better than I expected.
I’d been ready for her to get overwhelmed—to retreat, to go quiet, to put up walls. Instead, she laughed. She teased Nathan. She listened to Harvey like his words mattered. She let the twins climb all over her like they’d known her forever.
She fit.
And watching her do it had done something dangerous to me.
A softdingbreaks the quiet.
Ifreeze.
Sabrina doesn’t stir, just snuggles closer, her nose brushing my chest. I wait a few seconds before carefully reaching for my phone on the nightstand, angling the screen away from her face.
John:
Call me when you can. I have what you asked for.
My jaw tightens.
I ease out from under her slowly, replacing my warmth with a pillow, pressing a kiss to the top of her head before I stand. She shifts but doesn’t wake.
Good.
I step into my office down the hall and close the door softly behind me before dialing.
John answers immediately. “Langston.”
“Talk,” I say quietly.
He doesn’t waste time. “Sabrina Kensington walked away from her family’s money years ago. Trust fund, accounts, properties—she signed off on all of it. Took a modest settlement when her mother passed and moved out on her own.”
That tracks.
“She didn’t want anything tied to her father’s name,” John continues. “After her mother died, she stepped away from the public life he’d built around the family. No galas. No press. No social circuit.”
I lean back against the desk, eyes closing briefly.
That explains the waitress job. The independence. The pride.
“Tell me about Elliott Cavanaugh,” I say.
There’s a pause on the other end of the line. Just long enough to irritate me.
