In the aftermath of her twin sister's tragic death, Reagan Sinclair finds herself in a never-ending battle against paralyzing panic attacks and drowning in grief. Desperate to just survive each day, Reagan's world is turned upside down when Paris un...
Mom: Hey honey, just wanted to send a quick message to let you know that I love you, and I always will. Be safe. And call me Reagan Anastasia Jean Sinclair! My gynecologist calls more often than you do.
Reagan: I love you too, Mom. And I'll try to call more often than your gynecologist, I promise.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
A DISTANT FLUTTER ECHOES through my room, slowly pulling me out of a nightmare. My heart beats in my chest, the remnants of fear clinging to my subconscious like a hunting melody. I open my eyes and the nightmare slips away like smoke. I can't remember what I was dreaming about, only that it must have been terrible enough to wake me up. I groan and shift in my bed, unintentionally waking Walter from his sleep. He shoots me a disgruntled glare from where he's curled up at the feet of my bed before quickly dismissing my disturbance and going back to sleep.
I admire his ability to effortlessly slip back into sleep as I shift in bed. It's raining outside, maybe the last downpour of January, and I forgot to close the windows so the breeze is pushing my curtains about, making a soft fluttering sound as they brush against the floor. Robin would always find her way into my bed when it rained. I'd wake up freezing my ass off only to find her hugging my entire bedspread. My eyes sting, and I hear that familiar roaring in my ears that accompanies a panic attack. I get up, throw on a robe, and go outside.
I'm making myself a cup of coffee when the sound of footsteps draws my attention to the hallway. Apprehension and a little excitement are my competing emotions when Paris walks out of his room without a shirt. His hair is tousled over his forehead, with the dark waves standing at odd angles and pointing in various directions. He looks as if he rolled out of bed when he heard the coffee machine turn on. My eyes follow the curve of his shoulders, the definition of his chest. The way his muscles move with every step and the sight of all those tattoos sends a thrill racing through my veins.
My gaze unintentionally travels downward, and that's when I notice it — a hint of dark hair peeking out above the waistband of his checkered sleep pants. It's an entirely natural and human revelation, but my cheeks flush, and my breath gets caught in my throat as I realize just how incredibly male he is. Paris Rothschild was all man, no doubt about it. I feel the butterflies in my stomach and the heat rising through my body, while a primal, instinctive part of me revels in the sudden awareness of him in a way I don't think I've really allowed myself to before.
“Can't sleep?” His voice cuts through the fog in my mind and it's husky and still raw from sleep. I don't know why, but the sight of him clearly bed-rumpled makes my desire skyrocket. I've seen 'Doctor Paris' and 'Casual Paris' but I've never seen 'Just Woke Up Paris' and the urge to run my fingers through his hair myself is almost too difficult to resist.
"You okay there, Reagan?" I blink my eyes and try to ignore the feeling of blood rushing to my cheeks.
"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine," I manage to say, but my voice is strained. I can only hope it sounds steadier than I feel. I turn around to busy myself with making him a cup of coffee when he moves to stand behind me, putting both his hands on either side of the counter and trapping me in. I'm so painfully aware of him, every part of my body is on edge. I feel his heat radiating behind me, his presence commanding my attention. A shiver dances down my spine, my breath catching when his warm breath brushes against my ear, the rasp of his stubble sending waves of pleasure through me.
