But then, the reality starts to creep back in.
We have crossed the line. We have obliterated the line.
We are sleeping together. Real sleep. Limbs tangled, skin on skin. No barriers. No contracts.
But the contract still exists.
"Brooks," I say quietly.
"Yeah?"
"What happens tomorrow?"
He tenses slightly. The hand on my shoulder stops moving. The steady rhythm of his breathing hitches.
"Tomorrow is Sunday," he says. "We sleep in. We have the staff leave trays at the door."
"So, room service," I say with a grin.
"Basically," he says. "Free room service. We ignore the world. Maybe we build a fire."
"And after that?" I ask, pushing myself up on one elbow so I can look at him. The sheet falls away, but I don't cover myself. "What happens when the four weeks are up? What happens to the waiver? The lawsuit? The clean break?"
He is silent for a long moment. He stares up at the ceiling.
I search his face. I am looking for the softness, the openness I saw an hour ago.
But it's gone.
His expression is unreadable in the shadows. The vulnerability has been replaced by a trace of the old calculation. The Venture Capitalist is coming back online.
"Let's not talk about September," he says. His voice is gentle, but there is a wall behind it. "We have four weeks. Let's just... be here. Tonight."
It's not an answer.
It's a deflection.
A cold knot forms in my stomach. He is happy to have me in his bed, acting as a partner against Royce and a lover for the summer.
But am I still just temporary? Am I just a very enjoyable way to pass the time until this is over?
"Tonight," I whisper, settling back down onto his chest because I am too cowardly to fight him on it tonight.
He relaxes. He kisses my forehead. "Go to sleep, Ivy."
I close my eyes. The pillow wall is gone. His breathing evens out into sleep, his arm heavy across my waist.
Four weeks. The waiver releases in four weeks, and then he'll have his clean break.
I count his heartbeats and try not to do the math.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
BROOKS
I wake up to the smell of rain and peace.
For a few seconds, that golden, hazy buffer between sleep and consciousness, I don't know where I am. I don't know about the board. I know that I am warm, I am rested, and a weight rests on my chest that feels like it has always belonged there.
