Page 10 of In Hot Water (The Hot Brothers #3)

CHAPTER NINE

DAWSON

I wake up suffocating under the world’s heaviest, furriest security blanket. My head feels like it’s been wrapped in a space helmet made out of cat. I crack one eye and find the sun has already climbed over the blinds, stripes of gold leaking across the foot of the bed and up onto Isla’s bare back.

Her blonde hair is a bird’s nest splayed over the pillow, one arm thrown across my stomach and her left leg hooked over mine like she’s afraid I might escape.

I can still smell her perfume on the sheets—a mix of vanilla and some kind of flowery thing I can’t identify, but fuck if it doesn’t make my chest ache.

I try to shift, but something hard and bony whacks my chin.

Oreo. That evil genius feline is sprawled across my skull, his little murder mittens kneading the side of my head, face mashed against my temple, purring like a lawnmower.

He’s got his claws deep in my hair, and every time I move, he latches on tighter.

I think I heard once that when a cat sleeps on you, it means you’re accepted into the pride.

I’m not sure if it’s that or if Oreo’s just making sure I don’t fuck up his kingdom by moving an inch.

On Isla’s other side, Alfred the ancient Shih Tzu is snoring so loud I can feel the vibrations in the mattress. Every so often, his legs spasm like he’s running from his own dreams. The little guy is pressed up tight to Isla’s bare back, the world’s most dedicated personal heater.

I’m so comfortable, I don’t want to move, but I must. Our first “official” date was two weeks ago, and I haven’t spent another night at my apartment since.

In fact, I’ve pretty much moved in here.

I started stopping by my apartment every night to grab clean clothes for the next day.

Then I started doing my laundry here, so my clothes just stayed.

Along with the rest of my stuff. Isla doesn’t seem to mind, and I’ve never been happier.

My family is chomping at the bit to meet my girl, but I’ve been holding them off, not wanting to do anything to scare off my skittish, gorgeous girl.

I breathe in, forcing myself to stay still. I could die here, honestly. It wouldn’t be a bad way to go. The pressure of Oreo on my face, the sweat cooling on my chest, Isla’s hand splayed open, palm hot and damp over my ribcage. For a second, I’m aware of how surreal this all is.

I close my eyes and let the morning seep in. The world is silent except for the snuffling of Alfred and the goddamn chainsaw of Oreo’s purr. The heat of Isla’s skin is a brand. Her leg moves in her sleep, brushing my cock. I hiss, and Oreo huffs, annoyed by my insubordination.

I twist my head, get a clear look at her.

Isla’s always intimidating when she’s awake, but asleep, she’s soft.

Her lips are slightly parted, and there’s a tiny freckle on her lower lip that I like to run my tongue over.

Her brow is furrowed like she’s fighting someone in her dreams. Even unconscious, she’s intense as hell.

I could stay like this forever, but my left arm is numb, and I’m going to piss myself if I don’t get up.

Gently, I try to dislodge Oreo, but he’s a heavy little shit.

I manage to get a hand under his belly and ease him off my head, laying him next to Isla’s shoulder, where he immediately starts to knead her upper arm.

She doesn’t stir. For someone so intense, she sleeps like the dead.

Slowly, I untangle myself from Isla’s grip. Her hand drags across my abdomen as I roll out of bed, and her fingertips leave pink trails on my skin. I almost lose the battle when she sighs and snuggles deeper into the mattress, hair tangling around her face, but I force myself upright.

Alfred is instantly awake, waddling across the sheets with a yawn that could split his tiny head in half.

He eyes me with suspicion, like he’s not convinced I’m worthy of taking care of his mom.

He jumps off the bed with a thump and trots to the door, glancing back over his shoulder.

Oreo, meanwhile, has repositioned himself on Isla’s chest, head pressed under her chin.

He flicks his tail at me, dismissing me from his service.

I watch Isla for another moment. I want to memorize this. The way she sleeps, all sprawled out, oblivious to the world. The way she trusts me enough to let me see her like this.

I open the bedroom door and step into the hallway. That gets Oreo’s attention. He jumps off the bed and follows Alfred, who’s hot on my heels. Isla likes to sleep until the absolute last minute, and I’m an early riser, so I took charge of breakfast duty.

I pause for a second, letting it all sink in. The apartment is quiet, just the soft patter of Alfred’s paws and Oreo’s indignant meow as he demands to be fed. I feel right at home. Like I’ve been adopted into a pack, and the pack expects me to pull my weight.

I shoot a glance back at the closed bedroom door, a stupid grin spreading over my face.

The kitchen is a shrine to efficiency—everything is labeled, from the flour canister to the “Breakfast of Champions” container, which is apparently Alfred’s preferred kibble.

Alfred’s bowl sits on a rubber mat shaped like a cartoon bone, and there’s a sticky note on the fridge that reads: “DO NOT OVERFEED. HE WILL BARF.” I almost laugh out loud.

I open the fridge and find the tiny Tupperware of boiled chicken for Alfred’s sensitive stomach, and next to it, the silver cans of wet cat food with the faces of judging, superior-looking felines on the label.

Oreo immediately hops onto the counter and sits, tail curling around his feet, eyes fixed on me with impatience.

I get Alfred’s breakfast ready first, since the cat can’t actually starve to death in the thirty seconds it takes me to scoop out a little chicken and mix it with the dry food.

Alfred sits perfectly, staring at the bowl, vibrating with excitement but not making a sound.

The minute I put it down, he sucks it down like a vacuum.

Oreo, on the other hand, is a fucking drama queen.

He meows and circles, then tries to climb my leg like a tree.

I pop the tab on the can and spoon out the food, dropping a blob into his bowl.

Oreo sniffs it, snorts, then starts eating with the delicacy of a food critic at a Michelin-starred restaurant.

I’m barely awake, but my hands are working on autopilot.

The first time I did this, it was a disaster—I spilled kibble everywhere, got the wrong bowl, forgot to turn on the TV, which, as it turns out, is not allowed.

Oh no. These two divas need The Big Bang Theory playing in the background whenever possible.

It didn’t take me long to learn how to move around the kitchen like I belong here. I know which sponge Isla likes, where she keeps the good coffee, what brand of almond milk she drinks in her morning smoothies. It’s all burned into my brain.

The remote is on the counter next to the fruit bowl.

I hit the power button and The Big Bang Theory lights up the TV.

Alfred shuffles over and plants himself in front of the screen, the way Isla told me he always does, while Oreo curls up on the couch, tail flicking with every punchline.

I pour myself a glass of water and watch them for a minute, feeling…

I don’t know what I’m feeling, but it’s something huge and weird and terrifying.

It’s domestic. That’s the word. Domestic.

It should scare the shit out of me, but instead it feels like the world is finally spinning in the right direction.

Maybe this is what happens when you let someone in—she brings her animals, her routines, her neurotic sticky notes, and her favorite show, and suddenly it all fits.

I lean against the counter and just watch the animals do their thing. It’s simple, and it’s messy, and I’m addicted to it.

I leave the TV running and the kitchen exactly the way Isla likes it—dishes in the dishwasher, counters wiped, food containers closed tight—and I sneak back down the hallway toward the bedroom.

Just before I open the door, I look back at the living room. The early light, the sound of the TV, the sight of a cat and a dog who have, for reasons unknown, accepted me as their provider.

I never thought I’d want this. Now I don’t know how to live without it.

I close the bedroom door behind me, careful not to make a sound.

Inside the bedroom, it’s dim and cool. The blinds cut the sunlight into thin, harmless blades across the foot of the bed.

Isla’s on her stomach now, hair a shield over her face, the sheet barely covering the curve of her ass.

Her body is a goddamn work of art—soft where I want it, strong where I need it, and so familiar already that it hurts.

I climb into bed next to her, careful not to wake her, and just… look.

Her lips are open a little, the softest snore escaping every third breath.

There’s a tiny freckle on her ear, right where it meets her jaw, and the way her hair falls, it half-hides it.

I reach out and tuck the hair behind her ear, just so I can see it again.

Her lashes flutter, but she doesn’t wake.

I could do this all day. Just watch her breathe.

I know that makes me sound like a total stalker, but fuck it.

I’m totally addicted to my girl. She’s never this peaceful when she’s awake—she’s always thinking, moving, plotting, never content to just be.

But asleep? She’s vulnerable. And I’m the only one who gets to see her like this.