Page 56 of Saved By the CEO

“Christ.” Andrew rubs his eyes. “It feels like I’m going to fall asleep any second.”

“We’d better get a move on then,” I say, standing up. “I’m just going to brush my teeth, and then we can—” I make a vague gesture.

He nods once, eyes half-closed. “Fine.”

I’m gone for maybe two minutes. Long enough to brush my teeth, wash my face, and tell my reflection to get a grip. When I come back out, Andrew is asleep.

He’s lying on top of the covers, still in his shirt and slacks, one arm thrown over his stomach and his head turned toward my side of the bed. His shoes are still on.

I stop at the foot of the bed.

Then he lets out a slow, heavy breath, and I feel any lingering irritation I might have had soften.

He looks exhausted.

Utterly, utterly exhausted.

I should wake him. Probably. The treatment is the whole reason he came here in the first place. But he looks like he needs sleep more than he needs anything else right now, and before I can overthink it, I walk over, carefully tug off his shoes, and set them by the bed. I turn off the TV, switch off the lamp, and crawl under the covers on the other side of the bed.

For a while, I lie there in the dark, listening to the rain tapping softly against the window and the steady sound of Andrew breathing beside me.

The last thing I remember thinking is that this should feel strange.

But it doesn’t.

There’s movement.

A shift in the mattress. A rustle of fabric.

My eyes crack open, but the room is dark and blurry, and my brain is somewhere thick and warm and slow.

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep,” a voice says quietly. It sounds rough, far away, like it’s coming from the edge of a dream.

“Mhm,” I mumble.

“I should go.”

I make a sound that is probably meant to be a word. Then I lift one heavy arm and pat blindly at the space beside me. “Sleep,” I mumble.

“I really should get back to my room.”

“Nah.” I pat the mattress again. I don’t know why, but I want the man with the nice, low voice to lie down next to me.

I hear him move. The covers lift, and cold air invades my warm little cocoon. I frown.

“Cold,” I complain.

“Sorry.”

Then he’s there. Under the blanket now. Too stiff. Too far away. I reach for him, my fingers catching on his shirt, and tug.

He goes still.

I tug again. “Come here.”

For a second, nothing happens. Then the mattress shifts, and he moves closer.

That’s better.