He should be sleeping too. Exhausted from the day, from the week, from thirty-five years of carrying weight he might finally be able to set down. But his eyes wouldn’t close. His mind wouldn’t quiet.
This isn’t right.Not wrong in the way Rob had been wrong, or the way violence was wrong. But wrong like deviation. Like stepping outside the lines he’d drawn to keep himself safe.
Three hours. That was about the most he could sleep in one stretch. For thirty-five years, it was the same: lights out at nine, eyes wide open at midnight, struggle back to sleep at two, and up at five. That was the rhythm. That was his rule.
It was 3:47 a.m., and he was wide awake in a woman’s bed, and his body still hummed from what they’d done. Her scent was all over him, blending so nicely with his.
Every alarm in his head screamed.You’ve gone too far. Get back in line. Restore order.He wanted to ignore them. God, he tried to ignore it. Tried to focus on her warmth, the softness of her breathing, the way she’d looked at him like he was allowed to want this. But the voice grew louder.You don’t get to have this. You don’t deserve this. Something terrible will happen.
Monique shifted in her sleep and made a soft sound. Her hand flexed on his chest. Maurice carefully extracted himself from under her. She stirred, brow furrowing.
“I’m just going to the bathroom,” he whispered.
She settled. Her breathing deepened again.
He stood there beside the bed, watching her sleep. So peaceful. So trusting. And he was about to—No, just the bathroom. Come right back. You promised.
But his feet carried him to the door. His hand found the handle. The voice in his head was chanting now, the way it had for decades: Back in line. Restore order. Get control. It beat at the base of his skull.
He slipped out into the hallway.
Maurice stood there for a long moment, hand still on the handle. He could go back. He could slide into bed beside her. Could choose to stay.
Instead, he let her door lock behind him. Then he entered his own room and secured the bolt.
CHAPTER 17Monique
Monique woke to an empty bed.
Cocooned in the duvet, her body ached in places that told the story of last night, even if her mind was foggy with sleep and something that felt dangerously close to hope.
Waking up alone wasn’t unusual for her, but she wasn’t expecting to have the bed to herself after what happened last night. Future Monique wouldn’t be hurt if Maurice ended things between them. But present-day Monique was angrier about it than she should be after knowing him for three days. The room was dark in the way hurt feelings preferred. Not midnight-dark but the blackout-curtains-doing-their-job-too-well kind of dark. That cave-like feeling hotels specialized in, where time disappeared, and you could be anywhere, anyone, in any version of your life.
She rolled over and pressed her face into the pillows. The bed smelled like him. Like forests and sweetness. The memory of how his hands shook when they touched her. His mouth on her breasts. The way he’d come, like he was surprised his body could do that, could feel that.
And then how he’d held her like she was the only solid thing in the world worth holding onto.
She reached for her phone in the darkness. The screen swam into focus. 8:47 a.m. “Shit.”
Forcing herself out of bed with her legs still shaky and her mouth still tasting like him was a challenge.
She wrapped her robe around her shoulders and walked to the bathroom. A piece of paper sat on the floor near the door. She picked it up. The paper was heavy. Expensive. The kind of paper that made whatever was written there feel official.
Monique,
I forgot about some things I need to do this morning for the wedding. I’m sorry. Rain check on breakfast?
Yours,
Mo
Bullshit. Monique didn’t want to think about how good it felt to be held, to drift into nothingness on a river of soft breaths and strong, steady heartbeats. The comfort of him disturbed her.
What was she supposed to do with all these feelings? The odd hollowness that arrived when she woke, and he wasn’t there. The blank spaces in his note broadcast the untruth in his message.
Coffee, a pastry, was a bridge too far for him. His fears overwhelmed her, and she was so goddamned pissed that it mattered to her.
They’d see each other at the wedding and reception. They had one more day and night. Twenty-four more hours in paradise to make a decision, to make a plan.