“Good,” she murmurs. Then she settles her head against me, trusting me to hold her—trusting me not to disappear.
I don’t feel the urge to get up, get dressed, get distance.
I just stay.
I close my eyes and let that be enough.
Chapter 7
Beauty, Beast, and Bunny
January 27 | Day 4 Anguilla AM | T–4
Jane
My thighs are staging a formal protest.
Every muscle from the waist down has filed a grievance, and they're all demanding workers' comp. I shift under the sheet and immediately regret having nerve endings.
Worth it, though.
So worth it.
I'm lying on my stomach, face buried in a pillow that smells like West and last night's decisions. The good kind of decisions. The kind that leave you glowing and sore and secretly smiling into expensive Egyptian cotton at seven in the morning.
The bed dips beside me.
"You alive over there?" West's voice is low, amused, morning-rough in a way that does things to my already compromised nervous system.
"Define alive," I mumble into the pillow.
"Vertical. Verbal. Capable of regret."
"Then no. Absolutely not. I'm a puddle with a pulse."
He laughs—quiet, genuine—and the soundsettles warm in my chest.
I crack one eye open. He's already showered, dressed in khaki shorts and a white linen shirt that should be illegal on a man with shoulders like that. His hair's still damp, and he's holding a coffee mug in each hand like some kind of caffeine-bearing angel.
"I brought reinforcements." He sets one mug on the nightstand beside me.
I drag myself upright with the dignity of a geriatric sloth. The sheet pools at my waist. I'm still naked. West's gaze flickers down, then snaps back up with the discipline of a man who's clearly already made executive decisions about his self-control this morning.
"Thank you," I say, reaching for the mug.
"You're welcome." He sits on the edge of the bed, watching me with that quiet intensity that used to make me nervous and now just makes me want to climb back into his lap.
I take a sip. Perfect temperature. Perfect amount of cream.
"How are you this functional?" I ask. "We only slept like four hours."
"Practice," he says. Then, softer: "And motivation."
My face heats. Not a blush—a full-system flush that starts at my cheeks and works its way down.
"Motivation," I repeat.
"Yeah." His gaze holds mine. "Wanted to make sure you were okay."
