West’s breathing is deep and even. He’s still asleep.
Carefully, millimeter by agonizing millimeter, I start to peel myself away. My leg slides off his. My hand lifts from his abs—which are, annoyingly, exactly as firm as they look. I raise my head gingerly so I can assess how and how far I need to go to reclaim my pillow.
This is not part of the deal. This is not professional. I can get arrested for the kind of indecent thoughts I’m having about this…
A low, sleep-rough rumble vibrates against my cheek. “Morning, hurricane.”
I flinch so hard I nearly elbow him in the ribs. “I wasn’t… I didn’t mean to…”
“Invade my personal space like a conquering army?” He cracks one eye open, a lazy smirk playing on his lips. “Relax. It’s a big bed. Territorial drift happens.”
“I do not drift,” I whisper-hiss, finally managing to put a solid two inches of expensive Egyptian cotton between us. "I have excellent spatial awareness."
"You had your knee in my spleen."
I groan, and my cheeks are on fire.
“Sleep okay?”
“Great.” Liar.
“Very… restful. You?”
“Like a rock.” His arm lifts slowly, deliberately, away from my waist.
The cool air rushes in to replace the heat of his body, and I have to resist the ridiculous urge to chase it. To roll over and press myself against his side.
Get a grip, Cooper.
“You don’t snore.” His gaze flicks over my face.
“Gee, thanks. High praise.”
“It is, actually. My last roommate sounded like a chainsaw fighting a bear. In a gravel pit.”
He sits up, running a hand through his sleep-mussed hair.
The movement makes the hem of his shirt ride up, revealing a sliver of tanned skin and the defined V leading south.
I immediately regret having eyeballs.
Because while I'm busy doing a rapid internal audit of possible morning-face crimes—eye gunk, drool residue, and perhaps a rogue booger staging a hostile takeover of my left nostril—West Prescott looks like he woke up in an aftershave commercial.
Not styled. Not posed.
Justready.
Hair perfectly tousled in that way that takes normal people forty-five minutes and three products. Jawline still sharp enough to cut glass. Not a single pillow crease on his stupid perfect face.
Meanwhile, I definitely have sheet marks on my cheek that spell out something in Egyptian cotton hieroglyphics. Probably "HELP ME."
Morning light is cruel. It's not flattering light. It's accountability light. The kind that exposes pores, fine lines, and the fact that you definitely shouldn't have had that third martini.
I grab the thin blanket and tug it up, inch by mortifying inch, until it's hovering somewhere between my forehead and my dignity.
Just checking. Just making sure nothing escaped overnight.
I risk a peek over the edge.
