“Comfies and takeout?” I repeat, excitement brewing. “Are we having a slumber party?”
Rowan snorts a laugh. “Go. Inside.”
Ignoring his demand, I wave a hand over his bare chest. “Are these your comfies? Because I wanna make sure I match your energy.”
His brows flatten. “Pajamas, Hannah.”
“Right, but like the half-naked kind or themy heater’s broken and it’s Antarctica outsidekind?”
One AirPod goes in as he stares at me through heavy lashes. “How about the tiny sleep shorts that show off those legs and my sweatshirt up top?” He finishes with a smirk and a wink.
I give him a salute. “You got it, soldier.”
33
a wall of memories
Rowan
“God, that feels good.”Hannah groans.
Smooth, tanned legs slot between mine from the opposite end of the sofa as I massage the arch of her foot.
“Why do you wear heels if they hurt so much?”
She lifts her head from the arm rest and levels me with a look. “Because beauty is pain, Rowan. Pain is beauty. I don’t make the rules.”
I apply a deep pressure with the heel of my hand and her head falls back on another moan that has my body responding in ways I don’t need to contend with right now. On this couch, while our limbs are pretzel-tangled together, it doesn’t matter her head is all the way over there and mine is all the way over here—I want her. And those sounds coming out of her mouth aren’t doing me any favors.
Last night she wanted to sleep. And I meant what I said—I’lljustsleep next to her every night until I have to leave if that’s what she needs. I won’t take anything Hannah doesn’t offer up herself, no matter how badly I want it.
She hums again and my jaw clenches. I take in a slow, discreet breath, distracting myself with whatever umpteenth episode ofFriendsis playing on the television.
It only takes a minute to settle back into the comfortable silence,for my traitorous libido to fall in line. I imagine this to be exactly what a life with Hannah James would look like day in and day out. Her on the other end of the sofa being allherwhile I try not to shoot too fast off the trigger at the mere sight of it. A coffee table littered with half-eaten Chinese take-out containers, mindless sitcoms on the screen, her fingers grazing long strokes up and down the calf I have wedged between her ribs and the cushion while I work out the tension from her tired feet after a long day at the office. It’s all so blissfully domestic, my bones throb with the knowledge I don’t get to keep it.
Hannah’s voice cuts softly through the fray, pulling me back to reality. “I got a job offer today.”
I wiggle my toes under her arm. “Oh yeah?”
She nods sheepishly and meets my eyes. “Chief Philanthropy Officer for Boulder Children’s Hospital.”
Hannah blinks several times, lost in thought. After a few quiet moments her gaze drifts to a collection of framed photos hanging on the wall. The pictures span many years and locations, but the common thread in each of them are the two figures at their center. Hannah in all stages of her youth alongside another girl—this one with brown hair, even browner eyes, and a few inches shorter. Years worth of snapshots displayed as a memoriam to someone who meant the world to her.
I’ve walked past the portraits several times in recent days. Though I was able to infer for myself the other young person was Maddy, I haven’t asked for fear of opening up a painful conversation Hannah might not want to have.
For long seconds, she stares at the wall, speechless, as though the images are speaking to her. I continue to massage her ankle, my eyes tracking her expression carefully. I’m about to ask her more about the job when she speaks up first.
“A couple years after she died,” she starts, “I was taking a human relations course and one of our assignments was to volunteer time in some sort of humanitarian effort. The first place I thought of was the hospital. And maybe it’s the overachiever in me, I don’t know, but…I ended up offering to plan an entire fundraiser.” She meets my gaze then with a tired smile. “Turns out I don’t know how to take myfoot off the gas because it became an annual thing, and we’re coming up on year eight.”
A small laugh bubbles up. “Yeah, I’d call that overachieving.” She rolls her eyes and I jostle her foot. “You love it though, don’t you?”
“I do. It feels…important, you know?”
I nod. “You’re gonna take it then?”
Her heavy-lidded stare lands back on the collage of pictures. “I think I am.” She turns back to me. “But mum’s the word. The position’s not available until January, so I haven’t told anyone yet.”
Sealing her confession with a lock and key over my lips, I promise, “Secret’s safe with me.”