Reese, meanwhile, was based at Laurens’s headquarters in Enstone, England, a place she was still getting used to. The time difference did them no favors. When Reese’s days finally slowed, Sloane’s were often just hitting their stride.
One night, Reese lay on her back in the dark, sheets twisted around her legs, her body sore from way too many lower-body reps. The room was silent except for the low hum of the heater. England slept.
She picked up her phone and stared at it for a moment, thumb hovering, before typing.
Send me photos of your living room.
The reply came faster than she expected.
Sloane
My living room?
Reese smiled to herself.
Yes. Right now. I need to see it.
There was a pause, long enough for Reese to picture Sloane glancing at her phone, one brow lifting in that sexy way she had when her interest had been piqued. God, Reese wished they were in the same room right now.
Sloane
That’s a new one. And not at all the kind of photo I thought you were about to ask for.
Reese rolled onto her side, hugging the pillow.
I miss where you are. I want to see it.
A beat. Then another message.
Sloane
You know, I could’ve taken that in a very different direction.
I know.
Reese laughed as she typed.
I wish you would.
The photos came through a moment later.
The first was a wide shot featuring Sloane’s couch and low coffee table with late-afternoon light slanting in through thewindows. She had curtains, not blinds. The second shot was closer, messier. A throw blanket draped over the arm of the sofa, the corner folded the way Sloane always folded it, without thinking.
Reese’s chest tightened.
She typed before she could stop herself.
You still do that with the blanket.
The reply was immediate.
Sloane
Yeah. Habit.
Reese pressed the phone lightly to her sternum, the ache settling in.
I miss that.
