Not that way.
But still.
We couldn’t get much closer if we’d ended up like this on purpose. In her defense, the couch we’re on is tiny. My fault for picking it, right? But the only other seating in the library is a pair of overstuffed armchairs. Hardly conducive to wedding-night selfies. And Sayla had given us strict instructions to take a few more pictures for her montages before bed. Trust me. You don’t want to mess with Sayla Kroft Michaels when she’s in director mode.
So I did as she said.
The thing is, Loren and I didn’t expect “before bed” to end up here.
At least I didn’t.
And then I woke up holding her. At some point during thenight, she must have shifted, trying to find a more comfortable position. Which, as it turns out, is her cheek on my shoulder and her knees folded up like a conch shell.
Her full weight’s been on me for I don’t know how long. But I can report that I’ve lost all feeling in my lower extremities. I can’t be mad about it, though. And I don’t want to disturb her yet.
Not when her breaths are coming so slow and easy. And her carrot-cake hair is fanned out across my chest. So what if there might be a touch of drool leaking onto my shirt? I want to soak up every moment of her peaceful slumber while I can.
Until I can’t.
Because her phone just buzzed on the coffee table. For the third time. And I can’t tell who’s texting without possibly waking her too. To be honest, I’d probably let her keep sleeping, even if I ended up with a leg amputation for lack of blood flow. And the texts could be from Sayla, just checking in. Still, three messages does seem like a potentially important number. What if someone needs to get a hold of her because of her father …
That’s it.
I stretch my arm out as far as I can, fingers extended, fumbling for Loren’s phone. To be clear, I’m not trying to invade her privacy. I just want to see who’s trying to reach her in case it’s … not Sayla.
Inching the phone toward me, I glimpse the preview of a text.
Noah.
Super-man-bun Noah. The oh-so-irreplaceable PT.
My hand clenches. Not a fist, just … frustration. Loren relies on the guy so much. Or at least she has in the past. She likes him. She trusts him. And that’s not terrible. It’s great. I’m glad she’s had people in her life she could rely on. What’s harder for me is that her father likes Noah so much. I can tell. There’s a fondness there, and a comfort, that Harlan may never feel with me. I came on the scene too late. Timing is everything, as they say. So yeah, I’m a little jealous of the relationship Noah has with Loren’s dad.
Is that selfish of me?
Maybe.
Honest?
Definitely.
Still, Noah’s probably just texting Loren updates on how his appointment with Harlan went last night. In which case, hearing from him would hopefully ease her mind. As it is, she stopped to check the tracker app and the cameras at his house at least a dozen times yesterday. And either way, I can’t keep the messages from her any longer. If there’s an emergency, I’d never forgive myself for lying here wasting time.
So, after mustering every bit of sacrificial instinct in me, I gently lift Loren until we’re sitting up. As I expected, she stirs, lets out a tiny, sweet sigh, and I melt.
Sorry, folks.
Changed my mind.
I’ll just stay here, frozen with Loren in my arms forever.
Who needs limbs, anyway? Totally overrated.
“Bridger?” she says, slowly drifting out of her dreams. And my name on her lips first thing in the morning is just about the best sound I’ve ever heard. She tips her chin, lifting her face to mine, and her sleepy lids flutter. Then she snuggles more deeply into me, and I increase my hold on her.
One thing I refuse to do is let this woman fall off the couch.
“We fell asleep?” she asks, her voice still creaky with slumber.