When she opened her eyes, the room was bathed in the deep, ink blue hues of midnight. The heavy weight across her waist was still there, Grayson’s arm, a solid bar of muscle that felt both like a tether and a shield.
His breathing was deep and rhythmic, the sound of a predator at rest.
Moving with the slow, agonizing precision of someone treading on broken glass, Betty eased herself toward the edge of the mattress. She held her breath as his arm slid off her, landing softly on the rumpled sheets. He didn't stir. Even in sleep, he looked formidable, but the harshness of his features had smoothed out, making him look almost like the man she thought she knew.
She slipped out of the room, her bare feet silent on the floorboards. The night air hit her as she stepped onto the porch, sharp and
