Page 19 of No Strings

I say it three more times before her breathing evens out and calm seems to settle into her once tense muscles. “I hate you, Rhys Donovan.”

“I know.” I pick her up, bridal style, holding her close to me, her hands wrap around my neck while she buries her face into my chest. I walk us back home to lay her in her bed.

Instead of going back to my own bed I find the phone and dial Shane’s number. Pacing, I wait for him to answer. It’s three am over there, but I’m beyond caring at this point. He finally answers on the fourth ring.

“Is she ok?” He sounds wide awake as his voice is filled with concern.

“No, you fuckwit.” I yell, then take a breath, “Nightmares?”

“Oh.” Oh? I’m about ready to reach down the phone—“I thought they stopped. She didn’t have one the first couple nights, so I assumed...”

“Still! A, oh hey, so she’s been having nightmares, would have been a nice heads up. She just scared the fuck out of Molly.”

“Molly?”

I rub my brow line with a finger, “Brent’s daughter. They were having a sleepover.”

“Why?”

Because I fucked up, “Because they wanted one.”

“You’re lying.”

“And you’re an asshole.” I hang up on him.

Before going back to my room, I check on Morgan, who is now fast asleep. Unfortunately, sleep doesn’t come easy for me.

The sooner Shane finds the fuckwit, the sooner she can leave, and I can go back to my regularly scheduled programming. But between now and then, I will help her grow her confidence.

My mind goes to the way she looked at me in the pool. The way her eyes travelled down my body. I tell myself I’m different from the last time she saw me. Fuck, she’s different from the last time I saw her. But I shake that thought from my head.

I’m still awake when my alarm goes off. We have the gates and the yards that Davis, Beau and Miles, Dani’s husband, just put up on the other side of the freeway to check out. The thunderstorm will be a walk in the park compared to cyclones. But that doesn’t stop the cattle from getting spooked or people from fucking with the property and blaming the storm.

When I go to the kitchen, I’m surprised to see Morgan is already up and standing by the kettle. She’s still in her pyjamas, if you can call them that, because it’s just silk shorts that hug the globes of her ass.

Realising my eyes are focused once again on my best friend’s sister, I mentally berate myself.

One, it’s Morgan.

Two, she is my best friend’s sister.

Three, she has just gotten out of a domestic violent situation.

Four, she literally had a nightmare, only a few hours ago.

Five, It’s Morgan.

I don’t think it’s sinking in.

“Can you make me one?” I ask her in the way of saying hello.

She doesn’t respond, just reaches up for a mug. I, again, watch her ass. The material rides up as she stretches and I actively look away, finding the hallway I just walked from very interesting. When I can hear her start to make my coffee, I turn back to make sure she doesn’t poison it. Because given half the chance, I think she would. Not that I’d completely blame her.

“Morgan—”

She turns, thrusting the mug into my hand. “Save it.”

And then she’s walking into her room, ignoring me. I guess I deserve that.