“I want to be…normal,” I whisper. “I shouldn’t panic if you touch my ass. I walk into a shoot, strip down to almost nothing, and let strangers lift and tape my breasts, spray me with bronzer, and evensew me intoskin-tight dresseson occasion. But last night—”
“It wasn’t my hand on your ass. I know, sweetheart.” There’s so much understanding in his voice, it threatens to break me, and I hold my breath. “You were scared what would happen next.”
I nod. Somewhere in the middle of sketching him this morning, I came to the same conclusion.
“I don’t break promises.” Griff holds my gaze, the intensity of his stare impressing on me just how serious he is. “Which is why I don’t make many of them. You do what I do for long enough, you realize pretty damn quick that tomorrow isn’t guaranteed. Not for anyone. But I can promise you one thing. If you want to try again—at any time—and it gets too much? Just say the word and we’ll stop. I won’t be angry, I won’t pressure you for anything you’re not ready for. I might ask you to talk to me, but hell, I won’t force you to do that either. On my life, you’re safe with me.”
Tears threaten, but I can’t let myself cry. Not if I expect to walk the runway in six hours. Instead, I wrap my arms around his waist and rest my cheek against his chest. His heartbeat comforts me, steady and strong, and I think maybe I just might be falling in love with him.
* * *
Griff
I feel it the second Sloane’s breathing steadies and slows. It’s barely 7:30. With her runway show call at fourteen hundred, we have a little time, so I let her sleep, relishing in her trust, her strength, her honesty. Hell, I haven’t really opened up to anyone since the attack. Not even my CIA-mandated shrink. Not any more than I had to.
Sloane’s been so honest with me—even through her fear—that anything she asks me? I’ll tell her. Shifting slightly to lessen some of the pressure on my left arm, I catch a glimpse of her sketchpad.
For a full minute, I don’t think I can breathe. She said she’d won an art contest in school, told me about the private classes she takes, but I never imagined… This is how she sees me? Carefully, trying not to wake her, I reach for the book. There’s nothing broken about the man in the drawing. Nothing angry or frustrated or lonely—all the emotions I struggle with every day. He’s completely at peace, and though he’s definitely me, definitely missing most of his left arm, Sloane captured my bulked-up shoulder muscle, the surgical scars, and my tattoo with all its imperfections from the attack and the subsequent surgeries.
Setting the book back on the nightstand, I press a gentle kiss to the top of her head. “You’re fucking amazing, sweetheart. I hope someday, you believe that as much as I do.”
* * *
When the alarm goes off,Sloane jerks up, and her cheeks flush a bright red. “Oh, God. I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”
“You needed the rest. Don’t apologize.” When her gaze lands on the sketchbook, she covers her mouth with her hand and stares between me and the drawing. We’re close enough, I canalmosthear her mumbling, and I reach out and touch her arm. “Are you saying something, sweetheart? Because I can’t see your lips.”
Sloane picks up the book and clutches it to her chest. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…I was going to draw the lake, but you just looked so…”
“Asleep?” Cracking a smile, I expect her to laugh with me, but she levels a serious gaze at me.
“Strong. And…content.” Her shoulders heave with what I think is a sigh, and she frowns. “I couldn’t stop myself.”
The sketch is exactly what she just described—and the complete opposite of how I’d describe myself. “Sloane, is this really how you see me?”
The question surprises her, and her brown eyes widen. “Yes. Of course. You don’t? See yourself that way?”
The lump in my throat makes it hard to reply, so I shake my head. “Not anymore.”
Subtle vibrations echo in the room, and Sloane rolls her eyes. “Marina. She says the coffee’s hot and she’s ordered breakfast. So if you don’t want her opening the door alone, you’ll ‘get your ass out there.’” She exaggerates the air quotes then reaches for her robe. “We’re not done with this conversation.” Leaning in, Sloane cups my cheek, her thumb rasping over my stubble. “Your injuries aren’t what I see when I look at you, Griff. They’re part of you, but they don’t define you.”
The brief touch of her lips to mine settles me in a way I didn’t know I needed.
Until she gets to her feet and shrugs into the robe with a sad smile. “I should warn you. Given the tone of Marina’s voice? She probably assumes we had sex last night. I hope you’re prepared for an interrogation.”
“Wait.” Rolling out of bed, I find my t-shirt and struggle into it. “Marina doesn’t know? About everything you told me last night?” Marina is Sloane’s best friend. Don’t women talk about these things?
Sloane doesn’t meet my gaze, and her fingers clench and unclench rapidly at her sides. “No one knows.” Sadness etches small lines of stress around her lips and eyes, and I wrap my arm around her waist. “When your whole life is a lie, it’s easier to keep everythingrealhidden deep down inside.”
Oh, fuck. I should have known. I’ve spent enough time in deep cover to know how hard it is to be someone you’re not. “You are the strongest woman—strongest person—I’ve ever met, Sloane. I understand why you never told her, but…she’s a good person. In my line of work, you learn to read people. Marina’s got your back. And so do I. You’re not alone anymore.”
She rests her head on my shoulder for a long moment, and I worry I just said the wrong thing, but when she finally meets my gaze again, some of that bone-deep sadness has faded. “I know. Really. I do. But I’ve kept secrets so long…I don’t know hownotto.”
“You’ll learn, sweetheart. It’ll take time, but you’ll learn.”
* * *
Sloane
