Page 29 of The Crowned Garza

A snort escapes me as I pad to the bed. “Pretty sure your prayer line to the Almighty got severed a long time ago.”

“You’re one of the unrepentant ninety-nine,” he returns. “I’m the lost one He’ll always leave to find.”

I climb in under the sheets. “Huh?”

He snorts, muttering, “And she thinksmyprayer line is severed.”

Appreciatively, I stare at his side profile, drinking him in. “Are you really praying?”

“Yes. Shh.”

Unbelievable. The audacity.God, please don’t tell me you’re wasting precious sovereign time listening to prayers from this menace to society when there are cancer patients waiting for you to heal them.

“Amen,” Saint whispers after a while.

Shifting onto my side, I ask, “Did you pray for me?”

“There wasn’t enough time. My sins are too many.”

The giggle that bubbles out of me can’t be helped. “You’re unintentionally funny, do you know that?”

“Turn off the lamp.”

If I do, I won’t be able to adore how long and dark those lashes are. How lush and full his lips are. The beauty of his nose, jawline, low beard. The art on his skin. The cut of his lean muscles. That silky dark happy trail that disappears beneath his—

“Tillie.”

I snap my gaze back to his face and…

His eyes are open. Watching me ogling him.

But I’m not abashed about it. Why should I be? Who’s ever been ashamed of appreciating tasteful art?

“The lamp,” he reiterates. “Off.”

With a dramatic sigh, as if a slice of my favorite cake just got knocked out of my hand into a turd-filled sandbox, I twist around and switch off the lamp, mumbling, “Oh, what a travesty.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

“Say the word.”

Tillie

SUNNY’S RINGTONE PUNCHESthrough my peaceful sleep. Love that girl to bits butloatheher morning calls.

With a grumbling groan, I stick a hand out from under the covers and blindly pat around in the direction of the ringing device until my fingers find and wrap around it.

“I hate you,” I answer groggily.

“Love you, too. Up, up. Time to sweat.”

“You do hear the sleep in my voice, right?”

“Yeah, there usually is,” she says without a care. “But you know the deal, you must exercise a minimum of three times a week or I’ll postthatpicture of you online. So get up. Chop-chop.”

Witch. This is what I get for being besties with a fitness trainer. “One day I’ll wake up no longer vain and conceited, and that blackmail won’t work on me.”

“Not worried. That day will never come. Plus, I’ve got plenty more blackmails where that one came from.”