Page 90 of Pretty Mess

“That’s nice,” he says, his voice slurred.

“Yeah?”

“Yes. Read to me.”

I blink. “Read what?”

“The Da Vinci Code.”

“Okay, if that’s what you want.”

“But don’t stop stroking my hair.”

“You can take the man to Paris, but he still stays bloody bossy.”

He gives a sleepy chuckle, and I open my iPad one-handed while still stroking his hair. I start to read, keeping my voice low, and his pleasure is almost a physical presence in the room. I wonder when someone last touched him with no agenda other than comfort. My guess is no one. I feel a sense of fierce pride, but I keep my voice steady as I continue to read.

At first, he asks questions about the plot—sleepy questions, but they still prove how sharp his mind is. After a while, he falls silent, and his body continues to relax. I realise with shock that he’s fallen asleep.

I stop reading, and the room fills with the soft sound of rain hitting the windowpane, the gusts of wind, and the distant sound of traffic. I carry on stroking his hair, keeping my touch so gentle that it’s barely there. I watch his sleeping face, feeling as though he’s given me a gift. He has such a strong, commanding presence; this is like coming across a lion snoozing.

The ding of a message startles me, and I reach for my phone seeing Tyler’s contact picture.

I’m going to bed. Night, Wes.

A wave of relief floods through me. His communication has been sporadic over the last couple of weeks. I won’t hear from him for a few days, and then he’ll send a couple of texts, and I’ll relax for a bit.

I tap quickly on my phone.

Goodnight.

Then I sit looking at the text thread. It’s time. When I get back, I need to see him for myself. Then I can judge what’s really going on. I can’t stay mad at him forever. Tyler’s always been there for me and now it’s my turn. I need to speak to him and see what he’s doing about the money. If he’s arranged a payment plan, then maybe I could give him and Cath a deposit for a house. I’ve certainly got enough money now.

I touch the screen when it goes dark, looking at my brother’s picture. He smiles up at me—his usual crooked grin with that familiar edge of worry at the edge. I feel a wave of love towards him mixed with the worry that I’m trying to ignore. Nevertheless, it lingers there like grit on my skin as I ask myself the question I’ve been trying to ignore. What if he’s still gambling? I shake my head. He promised he wouldn’t, and he’s never broke his word to me. I have to believe him.

I toss the phone on the table and snuggle down. For tonight, I have this—the feel of Mac against me, the quietness of the suite, and the relief of knowing that Tyler is safe. Eventually, tirednesssteals over me. It’s hardly surprising, given I’ve been going full throttle with very little sleep and exams, and then today was a whirl of travel and new sights. I slide down on the sofa, putting my arm over him when he moves with me. We end up in a cosy sprawl on the wide sofa with his head on my chest. I cuddle into him, pulling the duvet over us like a cosy cave. Then I lie quietly, listening to him breathe. Outside the window, the City of Lights is a mass of energy and nightlife, but I wouldn’t be anywhere other than here with this man.

twelve

Three Days Later

I step into the lift and use my keycard to access the penthouse suite. I lean against the lift’s wall as it climbs, wincing at my aching muscles. The hotel’s gym is amazing, and I’ve spent every morning running on the treadmill, my music in my ears, and admiring the view of the river and the Paris skyline from the huge windows.

The lift comes to a stop, the doors open, and I make my way to the suite. The door opens to a familiar silence that makes me sigh a little. Mac’s been true to his word about this being a business trip. He’s left early every morning dressed in one of his insanely expensive suits and doesn’t return until late that night.

Despite his obviously punishing workdays, he’s joined me in bed every night. The sex has been as amazing as always—fierce and driven, leaving us both as sweaty wrecks. He’s also been true to his word about not spending the night with me, although I thought I caught a hint of reluctance to go.

Wanting more of his company is a ridiculous desire, but I haven’t been able to stop thinking of him all week on my adventures.

I step into the lounge and hear a sound on my right. I glance over and swallow a gasp when I see the man himself leaning against the door jamb. He’s got rid of the pinstriped suit he was wearing this morning and is now wearing old jeans that are worn white in places and cling to his long legs. He’s barefoot and I notice his white T-shirt has the name of a London rowing club on it, the logo a faded blue. His hair is ruffled and wavy as if he’s pushed his fingers through it a few times, and he’s holding a tumbler of what appears to be whisky.

“What are you doing back already?” I demand. And then immediately add in an accusing tone, “I didn’t know you had a pair of jeans.”

He raises one eyebrow. “Should I have told you? I didn’t know I had to disclose my denim history.”

“Well, you should.” I walk towards him, loving the way his eyes heat and smoulder. “You were born to wear jeans,” I say in a reverent tone that makes him laugh.

He takes a sip of his drink, the alcohol leaving a sheen on his full lower lip, and I step into him, raising my head and running my tongue over the surface, tasting whisky and Mac. He groans, and I step back, winking at him. “I could get used to drinking alcohol like that.”