Page 226 of Things We Left Behind
When we were both finally clean, I picked her up out of the cooling water, bundled her in too many towels, and led her into the bedroom. “Stay here,” I ordered, nudging her onto the window seat.
“What are you doing?” she asked sleepily.
“Changing the sheets. Don’t move.”
I found fresh sheets in her closet and made another mental note to contact my organizer in the morning. I’d make room here for me and at my place for her.
I made quick work of changing the bed linens while shooting nervous glances in Sloane’s direction. She wasn’t watching me. She was staring dully down at her feet on the carpet.
As I arranged her legion of pillows in the right formation, I swore whoever was responsible for this would pay. I’d make sure of it.
When the bed was ready, I returned to Sloane and tugged her to her feet. “Time for bed,” I said.
She followed docilely, making me wish she’d put up a fight. Show me a glimpse of the real Sloane Walton.
She paused, staring at the mound of pillows I’d arranged in a U.
“You remembered,” she said softly.
“I remember every second of us.”
39
Who Has the Head Wound
Lucian
Iwoke to a warm, vibrating weight on my chest. It felt comforting. Until the weight shifted and something sharp prodded me in the face.
I opened my eyes and found yellow ones glaring back. The cat apparently had an opinion about me sharing Sloane’s bed. The woman in question was sleeping soundly, her back glued to my side, her head resting in the crook of my arm.
The moment felt so fucking right. Like earning my first million. Only this was terrifyingly better. Money could be made and lost. It could be replaced. Sloane couldn’t.
I savored the moment…until it was ruined by another stab of claws. Silently, I glared at the stupidly named feline. She returned the look, tail flicking against my bare chest. Then, with a glance in Sloane’s direction, she opened her mouth and released a feral-sounding yowl.
“Shut. Up,” I hissed at the cat.
Sloane grumbled in her sleep and shifted against me.
I saw the gleam in the cat’s eyes, the shift of her weight,and caught her just before she pounced on Sloane’s sleeping form.
“Absolutely not, you demon fur ball from hell.”
I dumped the cat on the floor and carefully slid my arm out from under my exhausted librarian. Meow Meow must have felt I was taking too long rearranging the pillows behind Sloane because I received another puncture wound. This one to the calf.
“Christ, cat. I’ll feed you. Just give me a minute to find clothes.”
I was naked, and yesterday’s suit was not an option. Between the tree climbing and cradling the soot-streaked Sloane, my suit had met its maker.
With the cat obstinately threading her way between my feet, I poked through Sloane’s closet until I discovered a pair of pale pink sweatpants that would have to do. I dragged them over my thighs, seams straining, then unearthed the sweatshirt she’d offered me when I’d chased her home.
The ex-boyfriend sweatshirt. I was going to take it with me and conveniently lose it in a trash bin.
“Fuck,” I muttered, looking at my reflection in the full-length mirror.
The pants barely covered the top of my ass crack in the back. In the front, the thin, tight fabric did everything it could to accentuate the outline of my cock.
“Meow,” the cat said, sounding smugly amused.
