She glances up, green eyes going wide, spoon halfway to her mouth. Caught.
Right then it hits me, I want to be the reason she gasps like that, not from being scared or startled. But for a different reason entirely.
“Couldn’t sleep,” she mumbles, keeping her voice barely above a whisper. “I think there’s food in the fridge if you’re hungry.”
I grunt, grabbing a plate from the fridge. It looks like some expensive pasta the hotel left. I heat it up and sit across from her. I can feel her watching me, all shy and awkward.
I clear my throat. “I thought I was the only one prowling around at two in the morning.”
She gives a tiny laugh, shoulders relaxing a bit. “I have a hard time sleeping in new places. There’s too much noise.”
I nod. “I get it. The city will do that.”
We eat in silence, but this time it’s different, not uncomfortable like earlier. It’s just…quiet.
I could ask her about her family, about her old man, and why he treats her the way he does. But I don’t. It’s too personal, too dangerous. So I keep it light.
“Are you always a night owl?” I ask, shoving a forkful of cold pasta in my mouth.
She shrugs, a ghost of a smile touching her lips. "I read a lot at night. And it’s hard to sleep when I'm caught up in someone else's world, I can’t put it down. Makes it worth being tired the next day."
“What do you read?” I ask, surprised at myself for caring.
She perks up a little. “Anything, really. I like stories that aren’t real. Fantasy. Magic. Places I know I’ll never get to go.”
I nod, chewing slowly, wanting so bad to tell her there’s more to the world than this prison she lives in, but it’s not my place. I’m not here to save her, I’m here to keep her alive and breathing.
“Sounds better than reality most days,” I say instead. She grins, and it’s the first real smile I’ve seen from her.
Fuck, she’s gorgeous when she lets herself relax.
We end up talking for a while, about nothing really. I keep it safe. No family, no old wounds, nothing that would make either of us uncomfortable. She laughs at something I say, and I laugh too, just to hear the sound echo off the marble countertops.
When we’re done, we clean up together. She hands me a dish towel, and our fingers brush. She freezes, eyes wide, but I act like it’s no big deal and dry the plates.
I toss the towel down on the counter, “Alright, that’s enough manual labor for one night. Go get some sleep, kid,” I say, my voice softer than I mean for it to sound.
She simply nods, and heads down the hall toward her room. I wait until she’s inside, then do one last check of the doors and windows before heading to my own room.
This time, when I hit the mattress, I actually sleep. No dreams, no guilt. Just the memory of Ivory’s laugh, and the way she looked at me like I might be something safe.
4
IVORY
I wakeup in a tangle of sheets, sunlight spilling through the expensive curtains, and for one crazy second, I almost forget where I am. Then I remember; the hotel, the highly unanticipated upcoming gala, my father’s cold eyes, and Hudson, sleeping down the hall. My heart flutters, but not in a way that feels good. I roll over and stare at the ceiling, trying to breathe quietly, so my parents can’t hear me all the way from their suite. It’s dumb, I know, but I can’t help it. I’m always careful. Always quiet. And always less than I want to be.
After a shower, I pull on jeans and a soft white tee, brushing my hair until it hangs in a dark, shiny curtain down my back. I stare at myself in the mirror, tug the hem of my shirt lower, then take a deep breath before stepping out into the hallway. The rich scent of coffee hits my senses before I even enter the kitchen. It's dark, bitter, and somehow intimidating, like everything else about this situation.
Hudson is at the kitchen table, sitting with his back to the window, arms folded as he reads something on his phone. His dark hair has that just-rolled-out-of-bed look, and his shirt is stretched tight across his broad shoulders. My heart does this embarrassing little skip. I shouldn’t stare, but I do, soaking upthe way his tattoo peeks out from under one sleeve and the way his jaw flexes when he’s reading. He looks so different in the daylight, less like my bodyguard but rather something dangerous and forbidden that makes my fingertips itch with curiosity.
He glances up as I cross the kitchen, and suddenly I’m hyperaware of every awkward move I make. “Morning,” he says, and his voice is rough, a little softer than I expect.
“Morning,” I echo, sliding into the chair across from him. My hands fidget in my lap, twisting the hem of my shirt. I try not to stare at the way his biceps bulge when he lifts his mug, but it’s basically impossible. I look away, feeling how my cheeks start to burn.
He sets his phone down.
“Do you have a busy day planned?”
