I laughed quietly.
“Very romantic.”
“Hey,” a lazy mutter. “Morning priorities.”
He pressed another kiss against my neck—unhurried, like he had all the time in the world—before slowly sitting up. The blanket slipped from us, and the cool morning air rushed in.
I turned to watch him as he shifted his injured ankle carefully and stood, stretching his arms overhead with a low groan.
“God,” he muttered. “Everything hurts.”
“You jumped off a building yesterday.”
He glanced back at me. That crooked smile is such a rarity.
“Yeah. That might have something to do with it.”
I watched him go, this man I’d spent so long being angry at, and now the anger had burned down to nothing, and underneath it—something I hadn’t expected at all.
When he came back, he dropped behind me, pulled me back between his legs, and the blanket over both of us in one easy motion. His arm found my waist again as if his body already knew where I belonged: against him.
“We’ve got time,” he murmured near my ear.
“How much?”
“Jeff said the rest of the day, at least, before we reach the island.”
He settled back against the cushions and drew me closer.
“Might as well rest.”
The ocean rolled beneath us. The sun climbed. His fingers brushed lightly along my arm as he tucked the blanket tighter.
“Comfortable?” he asked.
I nodded against his shoulder.
“Yeah. You make a great bed, Callan.”
His chin came to rest on top of my head; he laughed.
“Good,” he murmured.
As I started to drift, Callan’s voice broke the quiet.
“Sloane?”
“Mm?”
A pause; I could almost hear the thought turning over in his head before he let it out.
“How long were you with Peter?”
Casual on the surface, but underneath, the question had been sitting in his chest for a while, waiting for the right moment to ask.
I opened my eyes and stared out over the slow-rolling water.
“Four years.”