I’d slept wrapped in Jackson Ivory’s warmth, his scent in my hair and his breath on my neck—dangerous comforts I could too easily get used to. I turned my head, studying him. His lashes cast faint shadows, lips curved in some private dream, hair deliciously tousled. The sheet had slipped low, revealing the kind of chest you wanted to trace just to see if it felt as good as it looked. I could’ve stayed there memorising him.
Carefully, I lifted his arm from around my waist and rolled away from his embrace. He didn’t stir. Out cold.
I tiptoed to the bathroom, brushed my teeth, washed my face, and changed into my yoga pants and a sweatshirt. The sun was already high, spilling cheerfully across my floors. I slipped my earbuds in and queued up my “Easy Sunday” playlist. As Maroon 5 crooned Sun
