“It’s all right.” Waddling over, Michelle patted Cullen’s shoulder. “My husband passed out cold when I was having my first one. And I don’t mean the birth—he only made it long enough to see them start the IV. We never like to see those—”
“One more word out of your mouth, Michelle”—Cullen’s voice dropped menacingly low—“and I will make sure HR stretches your maternity leave to a full six months starting yesterday.”
18
Sky
Cullen opens the door to his truck for me, his hand warm on my back as he helps me inside. For all the prickliness he works so hard to show the world, the moments when he lets his guard down show a different side of him altogether. One that Cullen seems determined to hide most of the time. The man has been oddly quiet since walking out of the room in the middle of my getting stitched up, but if the wave of exhaustion now hitting me is anything like what’s rolling over him, this isn’t the time to ask what happened. Actually, I don’t even have the energy to ask. Or to buckle my seat belt.
Reaching across me, Cullen slides the belt into place, his clean, spicy scent washing over me.
“I could have done that,” I mutter.
“And I’m a Disney princess,” says Cullen. Walking over to the driver’s side, the man pulls a bottle of water from his pocket, opens the cap, and hands it over, along with a dose of 800 mg ibuprofen.
I swallow the pain meds, leaning back against the comfortable leather seat of the car as Cullen sets us quietly into motion. My eyes drift closed to the silence, the white noise of the motor, and the feeling of Cullen beside me lulling me into an exhausted sleep.
I open my eyes to the sound of a garage door opening, Cullen’s truck climbing nimbly into a massive three-car garage that is most certainly not on Lincoln Drive. I sit up quickly, rubbing my face. “Where are we?”
“My garage.” After getting out of the driver’s seat, Cullen walks around to open my door.
“You said you were taking me home.”
“I never said whose home,” says Cullen. Unbuckling my seat belt for me, the man starts to slide his hands beneath me. Another second, and I know I’ll be in his arms—the thought of which is too tempting for comfort.
“I want to walk on my own,” I mutter.
He stops, his face tight as he watches me climb out of the passenger’s seat, as if it hurts him to watch me struggle. Strange. I would have thought he wouldn’t miss the chance to needle me with another variation of I told you so, but for some reason, just this moment seems to be a line not to cross for him.
I swallow. “You could have taken me to my place.”
“I didn’t want to,” says Cullen.
My gaze snaps to him.
The man crosses his arms over a broad, muscular chest. “Your place is a shit hole not fit for the mice who live there,” he says, back to being his smug self. “It’s also about three blocks away from where you just got four people arrested. So how about you don’t show your face on Lincoln Drive for a bit?”
He has a point, but then again—he also has a bank account. I’m not living on Lincoln Drive because I choose to. I’m renting what I can afford. But that’s a conversation for a different day. At this point, I’ll happily curl up on a doormat if I can just go to sleep in peace.
I follow him through a minimalist-looking foyer painted in soothing bluish tones and decorated only by a series of stainless-steel coat hooks and past a massive open living space with a fireplace I could probably curl up and sleep in. Walking down a well-lit hallway with a single piece of abstract black-and-white artwork, we finally stop at what Cullen tells me is the guest bedroom.
I eye the tall queen-size bed while Cullen pulls out a set of towels and a large gray shirt he says I can sleep in. Given how massive the man is, the shirt is bound to come to midthigh.
“That door right there is the bathroom,” he says, resting a muscled forearm against the doorframe. “My room is at the end of the hall if you need anything. I’ll leave the hallway light on.”
Whatever reservations I had about staying the night disappear as I settle onto the highest-end mattress I’ve ever felt and dissolve into sleep without bothering to change or take off my shoes.
The next time I open my eyes, my shoes are no longer on my feet, and the cool cotton sheets beneath me brush against my bare thighs. Sitting up with a start, I pat myself down to discover I’m wearing that gray shirt Cullen had brought, my clothing nowhere in the room. My heart pauses for a beat, then jumps into a gallop as I feel around in the dark for my phone.
It’s there. On the bedstead. Plugged into a charger, 3:23 a.m. glowing in big white numerals on the screen. All right. So Cullen had actually undressed me sometime after I fell asleep. Which was overstepping things, but somehow nice anyway. Pulling off the thick down comforter, I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and wince at my aching body. Still, I’m lucky to be alive. A tremor runs through me, starting at the base of my stomach and running up my shoulders.
Get it together, Sky. Slipping onto the floor, I walk over to the bathroom—which is larger than my bedroom on Lincoln Drive—and wash my face, the sound of the running water as soothing as its coolness. When I turn off the faucet, however, a grunting sound, like a bitten-back scream, catches my ear from down the hall.
I walk gingerly to my door, the hardwood floor cool beneath my bare feet. Peering into the hallway, I see a long stretch of parquet floor and a tall white table displaying a pewter chess set, ending with a door at the very end. Cullen’s bedroom. The bitten-back scream comes again, escaping from beneath the door. My breathing quickens as I head toward the sound, my hand hesitating on the round door handle.
“Cullen?” I call, pushing the door open slowly to behold a battle scene. In the light streaming from the hallway, I see sheets and tossed pillows crumpled on the floor. The blanket, which I imagine started its evening atop Cullen’s grand king bed, is now a balled-up mass in the corner. And in the middle of a luxurious mattress, Cullen’s whole body is tense as if curling protectively over something while invisible blows rain onto his shoulders.
With him dressed only in boxer shorts, I can see every muscle coiled beneath taut skin as he thrashes, grunting and fighting whatever nightmare is holding him in its grip. My chest tightens, my mouth dry as I approach the bed. I don’t know what Cullen might do if I wake him now, but I don’t know that I can bear to walk away either.
As the man recoils from an invisible blow, my stomach clenches.
“Cullen.” I reach for his shoulder, ready to jump away if he wakes swinging. “Cullen. Cullen, wake up! Please.”
His eyes snap open just as his hand closes into a fist, the man pulling the blow as he jerks awake. Sweat mats his short-cropped hair and slides along the groove of his back. He twists to me, his chest heaving from the unseen battle, his eyes sweeping the room before finally focusing on my face. “Skylar.” His voice is gruff. “What’s wrong?”
“I…” I heard you in pain, and I couldn’t bear it. “I had a nightmare.”
His eyes narrow on me. “Did you?”
Wishing I was a better liar, I bite my lip and shrug. “A lot happened.”