I wait a beat before trying again. But the view doesn’t change when I reopen my eyes. The large canvas painting on the wall facing me is still there. The painting of several Black women in brightly colored traditional outfits, performing a celebration dance against a neutral backdrop.
Memories of last night flicker into focus. Of collapsing on the bed, exhausted, the used condom tossed into the bathroom trash can. Of lying down next to a drowsy Zara after she’d come hard around me. Of thinking of how I should head home, but I just needed a moment to recover. Of thinking how right Zara felt—warm and naked and spent—in my arms.
My eyes widen.Oh. Fuck.
I sit up abruptly. According to the alarm clock on Zara’s nightstand, it’s 8:30 a.m. Not only have I overslept, I’m not at home.
Where all my things are.
Where my daughter is.
Double fuck.
I scramble out of bed, the erection I was sporting dying a rapid death.
Zara groans, but it doesn’t sound like the sexy noises from last night when I made her come. Twice. This is a groan that comes from pain.
I pause instead of grabbing my clothes scattered around the room. I walk to her side of the bed, kneel in front of her, and stroke the side of her face. “Hey, what’s wrong?”
She blinks at me like I’m a mirage, then slowly pushes herself to sit. “I’m fine.” She winces, unable to fasten on quick enough the mask everyone usually sees.
“You’re in pain?”
“No more than normal.” She gives me a smile I assume is meant to be reassuring. “I’ll be fine in a few minutes. Once I’ve taken my ibuprofen. And walked around for a bit. And done a few yoga poses.” Her smile fades to a frown. “How come you’re still here? I thought you were leaving last night. And getting in more words before bed.”
“I fell asleep.”
“Me too.” She touches her hair, as if just realizing she forgot to wear her bonnet, then shifts her legs from under the covers. Her movements are slow and hesitant.
I wish kissing every inch of her body was all it took to make her feel better, to chase away her pain completely.
I grab my boxer briefs from the floor and yank them on.
“Shit,” Zara exclaims. “You’re late.”
I locate my jeans and tug them up my legs. “I know. Kellan’s gonna kill me.”
“Only if he knows you’re late because we had sex last night and you fell asleep here. But he doesn’t know, right?” She lifts her eyebrow; I shake my head. “So he’ll just think you’re late because of Peony.”
She has a point. I’m not about to admit to Kellan, or any of my brothers, the real reason I’m running behind. Zara and I agreed, what the twoof us are doing is no one else’s business. It’s our secret. And I’m not breaking that vow ’cause I fell asleep in her bed.
I lean down and give her a swift kiss. A barely-there touch of lips. Anything more, and I’ll have a hard time leaving. “Have a good weekend. I’ll see you when I get back.”
Pulling on my T-shirt, I head to the living room, snatch up my phone from the coffee table, and bail as if the hounds of hell are trying to take a chunk out of my ass.
If Kellan has any say in it once he reads my text, the hounds could be doing exactly that.
I don’t bother with the elevator and sprint to the entrance of the stairwell. I practically hurl my body down the staircase, taking the corners tight. Luckily, no one else is in here. No one is at risk of me accidentally plowing into them.
As I pull out of the visitor parking, I send Kellan a brief voice text.
Me: Running late. Will be there shortly.
It’s a lie. I still have to shower, eat, and grab my gear for the weekend. Most of it is already packed. I just have to throw in a few last-minute items.
Kellan doesn’t reply to my text. If fate is shining on me, Troy and Lucas also fucked up and are running behind, because they squeezed in a quick fuck before leaving Jess and Simone.
Lucky guys.
