Page 15

Dylan

I hadn’t expected my own bed to feel like a punishment.

The mattress was better. The silence was blissful. The air was fresh instead of antiseptic. By all accounts, it should have been the best night’s sleep I’d had since the accident.

But it wasn’t.

My room was too damn empty. I’d tossed and turned for hours, the sheets crisp as a five-star hotel but stifling.

I didn’t miss the monitors beeping, but I’d grown used to Jennifer’s soft breathing nearby, her bed squeaking when she shifted.

Her presence had comforted me on a level I hadn’t known I needed.

We spoke every night until one of us fell asleep.

I’d woken more than once to find her completely out but still holding my hand.

That was not possible with me in my king-sized bed alone and her in one of the guest rooms I was certain no guest had ever stayed in. I lay there, trying and failing to make sense of my Swiss cheese brain.

I’m not a needy man. At least, I don’t remember ever being one. My parents raised me to be a confident, independent go-getter. My father believed in the value of hard work regardless of a person’s financial standing.

So, yes, I’d grown up in a wealthy household, but I’d also been pushed to challenge myself and produce results. Not that I remember being grateful for those lessons, but they had given me the fortitude to rebuild.

Rebuild?

After what? What the fuck happened?

Every memory was a rabbit hole that led to a wall of disappointment. How could I remember Jennifer’s wonder the first time she’d realized we could literally go anywhere she wanted to visit, but blank on what broke us up?

Like this house. I’d chosen to heal here, but instead of bringing me answers it only confused me more. I built this place for a reason my mind was hiding from me.

I rolled over, ribs aching just enough to remind me Nurse Bethany’s “no romping” rule wasn’t a joke. I pictured her doodled ribcage winking at me and groaned. How had my life become fodder for cartoons?

Pushing myself to a seated position, I decided I needed coffee. And Jennifer. Was she awake? Last night we’d paused awkwardly at our bedroom doors like a new couple unsure of a hotel arrangement.

She’d smiled and said, “Sleep well.”

Like that was going to be possible for either of us.

I was about ninety percent back. I could walk. I could think. I could make decisions. I’d even put in a call to my lead at Stowe yesterday about the upcoming season’s staffing. Every business-related decision came with a sense of certainty.

Would that soon be the case for the rest of my memories? God, I hope so.

I padded barefoot into the hallway, moving slowly enough not to wake Jennifer if she was still sleeping.

The kitchen smelled like roasted beans. Sunlight spilled through the window, finding my espresso machine—sleek, matte-black with brushed steel accents.

The La Marzocco. I remembered the brand, the pressure calibration, even the day it was installed.

I’d wanted the best. Not because I was a snob, but because quality mattered, as did the process.

Grinding the beans. Frothing the milk. Measuring something to perfection was one of the few indulgences I allowed myself.

Anyone who started their day with an energy drink instead was sadly unaware of the tone a good brew could set for the rest of a person’s day.

Which is why it felt like a personal betrayal when I opened the pantry and found a note taped to my favorite bag of beans:

Decaf only for the next few weeks. Doctor’s orders. –Steven

I stared at the note. Read it twice.

Great. First, he cockblocks me with that damn note from Bethany. Now he steals my caffeine.

What the hell did I ever do to him to deserve this?

I turned slowly, caught red-handed—then instantly forgot why I was irritated.

She stood in the doorway in jeans and a soft, pale sweater, her hair pulled back in a loose knot that made her look effortlessly elegant.

She wasn’t trying to impress me. Which somehow made her devastating.

Her slippers were fuzzy, and her socks mismatched—one gray, one cream—and for a moment, all I could think about was how many mornings we must have spent like this. Or could have.

Her arms were folded, but there was amusement in her eyes.

And something else. Her gaze traveled down the length of me—pausing at the white compression wrap banded across my ribs, visible where the edge of my pajama pants sat low on my hips.

The wrap ran from just under my arms to my waist, snug but not tight.

I could feel a faint pull where the tape attached the gauze padding along my left side—the worst of the bruising was still healing there.

There were no mirrors in the kitchen, but I didn’t need one to know what she saw. I wasn’t myself yet, but I was on my way back. Neither healed nor fragile.

Hopefully, a little badass.

Yearning burned in those sweet eyes of hers, but there was also steel. “Doctor’s orders, Dylan.”

I pointed at the espresso as it poured, rich and golden. “Bethany said no sex. She didn’t say no espresso.”

Jennifer raised an eyebrow. “The packet from the hospital was clear. Did you read it?”

“No.” The crema looked perfect. After a long beat, I reached up and clicked the machine off. “But I suppose I should assume that misery is key to healing.”

“It’s only for a few weeks. You’ll survive.” She chuckled with a shocking lack of sympathy.

“I might not.” I growled deep in my chest then looked her over again. “Unless every day starts with a kiss from you.” I kept my expression as grumpy as I could manage. “That might cheer me a little.”

Amusement replaced concern in her expression. “We’re not supposed to do anything that elevates your blood pressure.”

“You do that simply by existing,” I replied without missing a beat, then leaned back against the counter and held out my arms. “Get over here.”

She floated across the distance like we were magnets drawn to each other. “One kiss. We’ll keep it brief. The directions were clear.”

Placing my hands on her hips, I shifted her closer, so she was flush against my surging cock. “If all my blood is heading south, how could it possibly tax my brain?”

Gingerly, she placed her hands on my bare shoulders and tipped her head back. “You’re not allowed to die on my watch, and definitely not from anything I’ll be embarrassed explaining to your parents.”

She’s so damn beautiful. Inside and out.

Dipping my head, I grazed my lips over her neck, loving how she shuddered against me in response. “Say it was my fault. Everyone will believe you.”

Her voice was breathless. “I’d rather just have you get better.”

“One kiss won’t kill me.” I moved my attention to her delicately shaped ear, remembering she once told me how she enjoyed the tickle of my breath there. “The only problem is, we’ve never been able to stop at one.”

The way her hands tightened on my shoulders brought back memories of how she’d done the same during sex, especially when she needed to balance herself while I pounded into her against a wall or on the steps of my yacht while it was rocking. “Dylan, we shouldn’t do this.”

I raised my head so my face was just an inch or so above hers. Looking into those heart-stealing eyes of hers, I whispered, “I’m beginning to remember some things.”

Her eyes darkened. “What kind of things?”

“The ache of your absence. The weight of wishing I was someone who knew how to fix us.”

She blinked a few times quickly. “I’ve carried that same weight.”

The world was a fucked-up place, and the list of what I was confused about was only growing, but none of that mattered when she was in my arms. “I missed you last night.”

She swallowed visibly. “Being apart until we can be together is probably for the best.”

I traced the curve of her jaw. “Is it?”

After chewing her bottom lip, she said, “I could ask Steven to bring a cot—”

“My bed is huge.”

There was a storm in her eyes. “You read the directions—”

“I did,” I said and eased her closer until she was resting fully against me.

“And I was okay with it, until I woke up without you. Yes, I’d love to lose myself in you the way I’ve done so many times in the past. I’d love to hear you cry out my name when you come or beg me not to stop just before you do.

But I can wait for that. What I can’t wait for is to reach for you in the night and feel you reaching back for me. ”

Tears spilled down her cheeks. “You’re not playing fair.”

“Because I’m not playing.” Gently, I wiped away her tears. “Somehow, I lost you once. I can’t lose you again.”

Her hands fisted on my shoulders. “You don’t know how you’ll feel when your memories return.”

“Did you try to kill me?” I joked, only because the moment had become so tense.

Her eyes rose to meet mine again. “Should I just tell you?”

Fuck. The same part of me that had been about to start my day with a strong espresso wanted to say yes. I trusted her to give me the truth, but the price of hearing it might be never remembering on my own, always wondering if she’d softened my role in it. “No,” I said in a strangled voice.

She rose onto her tiptoes and gave me a long, deep kiss that was one hundred percent against the rules but also exactly what my soul needed in that moment. When we reluctantly disengaged, we were both breathing raggedly. “We could lay pillows between us.”

I rested my chin on the top of her head and savored her yes.