“Therapy, meditation, and channeling my stubborn nature.”
He huffs out a soft laugh. “The way I could’ve guessed that…”
“I got oldest daughter syndrome in spades.”
Our legs are tangled, each with one arm wrapped around the other, and peace is creeping over me.
“Tell me about being in the Marines,” I murmur.
“Which part?”
“Where you lived. Did you ever spend time overseas? How long were you in? What was your favorite part? What do you miss?”
“Are you tired at all? Or do you ask this many questions in your sleep?”
“I’m tired.”
“You sure?”
I stifle a yawn. “Mm-hmm. Tell me your favorite part.”
“The people,” he says softly. “Always the people. Then the mission. Being part of something bigger than myself. With other people who believed in the same thing.”
“Mm.”
He cups his hand behind my head and kisses my forehead. “Go to sleep, Margot. Need your rest so I can fuck you senseless again tomorrow.”
I think I giggle.
Not entirely sure.
Because all of this peace—it’s taking over.
And I think I’m falling asleep.
22
AND SHE CAN COOK
Rhys
I sleep sohard that when I wake up, I don’t know where I am.
Or who I am.
Or even what I am.
I just know my bones—if I have bones—feel rested in a way that they haven’t in months.
Probably years.
The room slowly swims into focus—brightly lit by the morning sun streaming through the window—at the same time something savory tickles my nose.
Margot.
I roll over in the bed, looking for her, but she’s not there.
The scent of—is that roasted vegetables? Bacon? Both?
