Page 148 of Your Place or Mine

Lydia

The first thing I became aware of was the weight of his arm draped heavy and warm across my bare hips.

The second was the faint scent of cedar, soap, and something woodsy and masculine that was uniquelyhis. It clung to the flannel pillowcase beneath my cheek, to the curve of his neck I’d buried myself in sometime during the night.

And the third, vibrating on the nightstand like a persistent mosquito, was my phone.

I groaned, eyes still closed, and reached blindly with one hand, knocking over a water bottle and what felt like a book before finally grabbing it.

I squinted at the screen.

Melanie (5 missed calls).

Another buzz lit it up.

Are you alive?? Do you still live here?? Also, I kind of need my car.

Callum shifted behind me, a low rumble of a noise escaping his throat as he pulled me tighter against his chest, like even in sleep, he couldn’t stand the thought of space between us.

A smile tugged at the corners of my mouth before I could stop it.

When I turned slightly to glance over my shoulder, his arm was warm, his skin rough with just a hint of stubble brush.

His face, relaxed and soft in the morning light, was so at odds with the stormy, guarded man he usually presented to the world that it stopped me for a second. Just long enough to memorize it. His dark lashes against sun-kissed cheeks, a faint crease between his brows even in rest, and that ridiculously kissable mouth now parted slightly with slow, even breaths.

This was Callum Benedict, unarmored.

And I was still in his bed.

Wrapped in his flannel duvet that smelled like the woods and comfort, like bonfires and something I hadn’t felt in a long time.

Safe.

I eased my phone into my hand and replied to Melanie with one hand while keeping the rest of me still, not ready to disturb the moment.

Alive. The car is safe. I’ll explain later.

Another buzz came instantly.

Are you NAKED ALIVE or just “fell asleep on the couch and forgot to text me” alive?

I stifled a laugh, covering my mouth with my hand. I wasn’t about to risk waking the man currently holding me hostage in the best possible way.

I tucked the phone under the pillow and let my eyes drift slowly around the room.

It was, unsurprisingly, all his. Masculine, warm, minimal. The walls were pine-paneled and stained a rich walnut, bathed now in pale golden light that streamed through the slats of the wooden blinds. A few old photos sat tucked in mismatched frames on a dresser—faded shots of a younger Callum and a man I assumed was his dad. There was a vintage fly-fishing poster on the wall. A leather armchair in the corner with a folded wool blanket over the back. Boots lined up neatly by the door. Everything had a place, but nothing felt cold or staged.

Then there was the bed.

The duvet was plaid, of course it was. Deep green and navy with a burgundy thread made the whole thing feel even cozier. The sheets beneath were worn cotton, soft and inviting, and smelled like they’d been hung to dry in the sun. Not some floral detergent or artificial scent, but real air and a life lived slowly.

My legs tangled beneath the covers with his. One of his thighs was pressed to mine, solid and warm, and I could feel the subtle rise and fall of his chest against my back.

My cheeks heated with the memory of last night.

The way he’d looked at me as he reached for my hand.

The way his voice had dropped when he told me he couldn’t stop thinking about me.

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