Page 25 of Even Robots Die (Even Ever After #3)

Florentine

I wake up with a start. Sweating and still wrapped like a burrito in my blanket.

It takes me a second to remember where I am and what just happened.

It was just a dream.

A very vivid dream, but still just a dream.

I rub my eyes with the heel of my palms.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

The man does one nice thing, one single freaking thing, and my poor sleep—and affection—deprived brain jumps to conclusions.

And what kind of conclusions does it jump to?

Wet dreams!

For fucking sake.

Why does it make me feel so desperate?

I know it’s been a while since the last time I had someone in my life, but why do I have to have wet dreams about the man who is keeping me from my life?

I also know that I should find a way to stop doing this to myself—starving my own body and mind of any kind of attention—but I don’t usually do well with one-night stands, and I don’t really have time for a relationship.

The latter shouldn’t be surprising, knowing that I’m rarely the master of my own agenda.

But the former is more about the fact I need some kind of connection with someone before doing anything naughty …

and here, same, I don’t have much time to get to know anyone.

Which makes me wonder why on earth my mind dug its claws into thinking that I had a connection with the handsome asshole.

There is literally no reason that would warrant this kind of dream in normal conditions.

Is it Stockholm syndrome kicking in already?

I shake my head at my own question. I know it’s not a silly question, but I also know that the main reason behind that dream is probably my—very—long dry spell.

I get out of bed and look out the window.

Outside, the sun hasn’t risen yet and the city of Blois is bathed in darkness. I can barely see anything out, even with the streetlights.

I rub my eyes with my hands again.

I should go back to sleep. I don’t think I slept more than three or four hours.

But I also feel the sweat pooling at the small of my back because I stayed too long wrapped in that damn blanket and, well, because my body reacted to what my mind conjured.

I release my hold on the blanket and look longingly at the bathtub at the side of my room.

If I take a quick bath, I know I won’t be able to fall asleep again.

But maybe it’s the right thing to do, though.

I need to go back to coding if I want it to be over soon.

It’s not just that I want to be back home to take care of my sisters, but I can’t forget that I left them at the most dangerous time possible.

There is a war in Paris. It might not be an all-out war yet, but people are on lockdown and attacks happen at every street corner and I don't like knowing my sisters aren’t protected the same way while I’m here.

So I might as well go back to the lab now.

I slip out of my pajamas and get in the bath. I turn on the shower head and let the water cool my body.

Maybe it would be the right time to take care of myself so that I stop having dreams about Brice , I think to myself.

But as soon as I slide my hand between my legs, the only thing that shows in my mind is a pair of green eyes and a wicked, wicked smirk.

Of fucking-course!

I turn the water temperature to freezing cold and douse myself with it.

That might calm me for a bit.

I put on some leggings and a long shirt that’s probably a size too small for me and threatens to let my breasts out if I breathe too hard.

As I put my holo back on my wrist, I double check the family’s bank accounts.

It still looks like dad hasn’t seen the money.

We’re all good.

I peek at Brice’s account—yes, I added it to my accounts since he said I could take whatever I needed—and look down at my shirt again.

Whatever I need indeed.

I guess Brice is ordering me shirts today.

I go to my favorite online shop and add a couple overalls too because I have no idea how long I’m going to stay in Blois, and by the time I’m done taming my curly hair, the package containing my clothes is at the window.

I bring it in, change my shirt, and then I’m on my way to the lab.

It's eerily quiet at this time of the morning.

I can hear myself breathing and every single one of my steps resonates through the hallways, so I hurry up to my desk.

And there, waiting on top of it, is a steaming cup of coffee with a cinnamon roll next to it.

How did he know I would be awake? That I would be coming back at this hour of the night? This doesn’t make much sense.

Because yes, there is no doubt in my mind that this is the work of Brice.

It’s the same tray he brought me last night.

Though the pastry might be different, the coffee is prepared the same way as yesterday—well, as a few hours ago if we want to be technical—with what most people would say is too much sugar and a generous serving of milk. Just like I usually take it.

I search for a note or something, but there is nothing on the tray or even under it.

It makes me wonder if the man ever sleeps because that can’t be something he prepared in advance.

The coffee is steaming and those mugs that keep the coffee—or tea, to each their poison—hot have a tendency to either lose temperature fast when they don’t have a lid to close them or to leave a bitter aftertaste to whatever is kept hot.

This coffee was made five minutes ago at most and it tastes like confusion, but I can’t focus on that or I’ll be as useless as I was during the night.

I turn the holo-puter on and bite into the cinnamon roll.

That shit tastes so good and I want to say that I will regret it, but I finally have clothes that don’t make me feel like they were sewn on my body, so I relish the pleasure of eating something sweet.

The cinnamon roll disappears too fast and still leaves me a tiny bit hungry.

Focus on the job.

Breakfast is in … I look at the right corner of the holo-puter … about two hours.

I can survive this.

I open the coding page and go back to work.

This is going to be a long day.