His lips trail down my neck, sending shivers all over.
"I love looking at you," he breathes, brushing the hair off my shoulders. "Will you let me look at you?"
My heart hammers, a wild thing seeking his. "Yes."
So he does. And I feel it. For a long...
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NOAH
It's a nice dream—a bed, a whisper, a kiss—but it's just that. A dream.
I jolt awake to cold morning light filtering in like strikes of ice across hardwood floors.
Where...
It comes back in a sickening blow. Camila's mother, a rotten childhood home, a dying dog, a strange man, and a fireplace. My heart pounds against my ribs, a steady, painful rhythm.
"We should talk."
I blink and sit up. There are only embers left among the ash just ahead. The room smells like charred wood and something faintly sweet, like cinnamon.
"I said we should talk."
I turn as I stagger to my feet. John's in a black coat and boots with two cups of steaming, fragrant roasted coffee in his hands. His eyes are sharp, searching mine with an intensity that makes my skin prickle.
Wait. What did he say? And where's Cam?
I step around the blankets, my breath fogging in the cold air, but she's nowhere. Panic starts to claw its way up my throat.
"Camila is outside helping me with work."
My jaw ticks. Camila's exhausted and worn down. Not just yesterday—every day for I don't know how long. She's due for a break. A long, genuine break. I feel a surge of anger, hot and irrational.
"No, John. She's not helping you today."
But John says, "Yes she is currently outside helping. Charlie is there. I suppose he's more a distraction than anything. Loud. Please take this mug."
"No," I say, running two hands through my hair. It's too long. I'm losing track of everything—myself, my family, my relationship, my friends—and now this. I feel the weight of everything pressing down on my chest like a thousand pounds.
"Coffee," says John. "She said to give this to you beforehand."
I make two fists, very much ready to throw something. "Before what?"
"Her story."
"Explain," I snap, frustration curling through my voice like smoke.
"That is very self-explanatory," says John with a nod. He lifts one white mug. "Coffee."
Fucking fucking fuck.
I take the coffee from John's hand, not because I want it, but because my hands need something to do. The scorching of the cup seeps into my stiff fingers. I ease slightly and lift the mug to my lips. It's all rich hot bitterness.
Fuck, I didn't want to want this, but it's...good.
"John," I start, my voice tight, "Cam's been through enough. She doesn't need to be outside in this weather, not after everything that happened yesterday. Now, I could tell her to come in, or you could. I say she'd take it better if you did."
