Page 91 of Make the Play

I wake up warm again.

It’s not the sweaty or uncomfortable kind, but the kind that feels like safety and skin and a faint trace of salty citrus clinging to cotton sheets.

That should be my first warning.

The second is the fact that my pillow feels suspiciously firm. And kind of alive.

My lashes flutter open, and I squint at the early morning light filtering through Chase’s curtains. I blink again, slowly registering that this is not a pillow.

This is a man.

This is a shirtless, very warm, very asleep Chase Walton, and I am draped across his chest like a weighted blanket with abandonment issues.

My leg is hooked over his, and my arm is sprawled across his stomach. My hand—dear God,my hand—is resting just below his pec, right over his heart.

I’m spooning him.

I lift my head carefully, and that’s when I feel it. The cool, traitorous patch of moisture on his skin.

No. Please, please no. I freeze and look down in horror, and sure enough, there it is.

A small, unmistakable mark of shame right where the corner of my mouth was on him moments earlier.

I. Drooled. On. Him.

I contemplate death. I contemplate rolling off the bed and army-crawling into the sea. Unfortunately, I live in Denver.

Chase shifts beneath me, his body moving ever so slightly, but he doesn’t wake. His arm stays relaxed around my waist, and his chest continues to rise and fall, warm and solid and covered in drool.

God, this man sleeps like a Greek god, and I’ve marked him like a Golden Retriever with a dental problem.

I start to stealthily peel myself away, but his arm twitches, and a soft noise rumbles in his throat. My breath catches. He’s not fully awake, but he moves just enough to nudge me closer again, not ready to let go even in his sleep.

So now I’m stuck.

Stuck spooning a naked-chested, sleep-rumpled, needs-to-keep-me-safe, bought-me-a-hideous-lamp-because-of-the-carnations, post-trauma-reveal version of the man I’ve been trying very hardnotto fall for.

I close my eyes again and let my forehead drop gently to his shoulder.

Just for a second. Just to breathe him in and to feel that warm, steady heartbeat under my hand—before the world catches up and ruins it.

Slowly, I manage to extract myself from his personal space with the precision of a bomb technician. His grip loosens in his sleep, and I slip off the bed, tiptoe across the room, and shut the ensuite door behind me with a breath of pure relief.

I make quick work of my morning routine. It’s Saturday, so I’m not in a rush to get ready. Just the basics, no make-up, and comfy clothes to start the day.

When I emerge from the ensuite, with the full belief that maybe I got away with spooning my fake boyfriend in his sleep, the man is gone. The bed’s empty, sheets half-kicked down. No Chase in sight.

I pad into the hallway, adjusting my tank top as I turn toward the living room, and immediately stop dead when I spot him.

He’s standing at the edge of the kitchen, stretching one arm overhead like he’s in a goddamn Calvin Klein ad. His hair is a tousled mess, his gray sweatpants are slung way too low on his hips, and worst of all, he’s now smirking right at me.

“Morning,” he says, eyes crinkling.

“Morning,” I reply cautiously.

“Sleep okay?”

“Totally fine,” I lie. “You?”

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