I tossed. I turned.
"You're not sleeping," Sloan said from the darkness.
I swallowed against my dry throat. "No." I nearly asked, 'Are you?' But that would've been silly given that he was obviously awake.
"I can't sleep either," he said.
I turned toward the direction of his voice, pulling the sheet and comforter with me. "Too much in your head?"
He chuckled, a low, deep rumble down in his throat, and he reached for me, pulling me to him.
"There's a lot to think about." His words came gravelly and raspy and oddly delicious. Like I could taste them—which was silly because they were words. Even so, my taste buds flooded with caramel, vanilla, and warm spice. Nutmeg or cinnamon or something like that.
I wondered if my words had a flavor for him.
"I promise I'll get your kitchen fixed tomorrow." I would've crossed my heart, but I couldn't while pressed against him and all.
"Go to sleep, Maya," he said, with a low, caramel-laced chuckle.
I liked that—the way I could practically see his lips twitching even with my face buried in his chest.
"G'night, Sloan," I said.
And even with all the danger outside, I knew I was safe here with him.
That's when I finally fell asleep.
The sun was just beginning to filter through the curtains when I woke up, disoriented by the warmth in Sloan's embrace.
I started to shift away, but he pulled me closer, murmuring something in his sleep that sounded like "stay."
How could I say no to that? I turned back to face him, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek before settling back into his arms.
CHAPTERSIXTEEN
MAYA
Time was an odd thing when I was with Sloan—it went fast and slow all at once. Like a river that was calm and steady on the surface, but underneath the currents raged with an unseen force. I mean, it'd only been a few weeks, but it felt like we'd been together for ages. We just… fit. And when we didn't fit, we discussed it and released old expectations by setting new ones. This whole thing made no sense to me because the rhythm we found with each other seemed too perfect to be real.
Yes, I had doubts about this situation-ship we'd agreed on. I had a hard time calling it a relationship when every relationship I'd ever been in came to an abrupt stop before now. The rain always brought the mud… but not with Sloan.
I swallowed hard, because the last time I felt this content, I promptly got served with divorce papers. That was two weeks after Dan and I had said, 'I do.'
But there had been signs with that marriage. We didn't talk, hardly at all. Actually, we communicated more after he handed me the divorce papers than we'd ever done during the 'marriage.'
But that wasn't this, and Dan wasn't Sloan. Sloan wasn't my first husband, either, or any of the other number of boyfriends I'd had through the years.
I shoved all of those thoughts deep, deep down and forced myself to remember that I had to live for today and the present.
Was this real? Did communicating the hell out of this marriage and laying out all expectations actually mean it would work?
Or was it only buying us slightly more time in the raft on the river of time? Were we only fooling ourselves, or was this real? And how did a person figure it out before anyone got hurt?
Those were the questions, weren't they? Questions that didn't have answers.
I took extra time with my makeup that morning since I planned to film a few more reels for social media. There was one hickey at the base of my neck that needed extra coverage, so I selected a green mock-turtleneck shirt to go with my black high-waisted pants. The ones with the pleated front and a little split at the ankles. The whole vibe was chic-mountain with cutesy flip-flops. Perfect for a musician on the rise.
My social media accounts continued to grow, and 'Slaya' became a trending hashtag.
