Last Light(32)

I brushed my hands against her ass while she clung to me.

“Oh, hey, before I forget. I’ve got a new number. Did you try to call?”

“No.” Hannah’s brow knit.

“Yeah. Here.” I’d written my new TracFone number in my notebook. I tore out the page and brought it to Hannah. “I dropped my phone.”

She blinked and accepted the paper. “You dropped your phone? And it broke?”

“Yes. In … water.” I nodded. “Rushing water. Icy cold. Outside. A stream.” I made a streamlike gesture with my hands. Hannah was not buying this shit.

“In a stream,” she deadpanned.

“Mm.” I did the hand gesture again. A smile tugged at her lips.

“Okay, Mr. Mysterious. I’m guessing you dropped it in a stream called the toilet and you’re too embarrassed to tell me.” She fetched her phone and began changing my contact info, then paused. “Hey, how did you get a new phone?” She surveyed the room. “Actually, how did you get all this stuff?”

“I’ve been hiking into town.”

Hannah’s eyes widened. “You have?”

“Yeah. I mean, I dyed my hair.”

“Matt … you still look exactly like yourself with black hair.”

“Okay, okay, wait.” I disappeared into the bedroom, emerging some minutes later in my incognito ensemble: hat, jacket, sunglasses, scarf. “How about now?”

Hannah fought her amusement. Her dark eyebrows drew together. She wanted to be pissed, I could see that.

“It’s just … Matt, if you get found out”—she laid a hand on her chest—“I get found out. Your family will hate me. Your fans will hate me. Everyone. Have you thought about that?”

“Hannah, I’m not going to get found out. I promise. Believe me, I want that less than you. I have to go out sometimes, you know?” I returned to the bedroom and pulled off my winter clothes. Hannah followed me to the door.

“As long as you’re careful,” she said.

“I’m a paragon of caution.” I balled up a shirt and tossed it to her. “Bird, if you don’t put your cute little butt away…”

Hannah snickered and pulled on my shirt. The sleeves flopped over her hands and the hem reached her thighs.

“Maybe I was hoping for an encore.” She lifted a brow.

“An encore, huh?”

Hannah leaned against the doorway. Even in my oversized shirt, she was a bombshell. Her sumptuous curves, her heavy hair, her plump lips …

“Mm, you.” I padded across the room. Hannah was here, finally, with me—and we were alone. The knowledge went straight to my head.

I took her hand and drew her toward the bed.

“Let me see,” I said, “what I can do about an encore…”





Chapter 19


HANNAH


It was eleven at night by the time Matt and I finished in bed. Or maybe we were just taking a break.

My hair was a nest and the sheets smelled of sweat and sex.

I curled against his side.

“Mm,” I hummed. “I’m spent.”

“I don’t want to sleep,” Matt said. “I don’t want to waste my time with you.”

“Then let’s stay up as late as we can.” I kissed his temple.

Sadness overlaid everything and I couldn’t ignore it. Whatever else life contains, Matt once said to me, it’s sad because it has to end. At the time, I thought he was strange and morose. Now I understood. No happiness that weekend would go untainted because on Sunday I had to leave. And maybe I could see Matt the following weekend, but I was still looking at another week without him—and another, and another. How long?

I sat up and stretched. A paperback lay on the bedside table.

“Lee Child?” I grinned down at Matt.

Even after hours of f*cking, my breath hitched at the sight of Matt naked. He sprawled on his back, hair wild and lids at half-mast. His lean, muscled limbs lay gracefully over the sheets. One arm bent above his head. And my eyes kept straying to his beautiful cock, which lay against his thigh. Good Lord … I felt like I was getting a full frontal from a male model.

He smiled lazily at me and I wanted to jump his bones. Again.

“Yeah,” he said. “Jack Reacher. He’s a badass.”

I finger combed a knot from my hair. “I wouldn’t know. I’m just surprised to see genre fiction on your bedside table.”

“Are you?” Matt sat up and moved behind me. He lowered my hands and began to carefully untangle my curls. “Well, for one thing…” He kissed my shoulder. “I write genre fiction, remember? The Surrogate is sci-fi. And then there’s Night Owl … which is romance.”

My shoulders stiffened and I dug my fingers into the bed.

“You okay, little bird?”

I bit my lip. How could I explain to Matt that my defenses flew up at the mention of Night Owl? He would feel guilty, and it wasn’t his fault.

“It’s nothing,” I said.

Matt’s hands stilled.

“Is it horrible for you, Hannah? The book being out there. Are people bothering you?”

“No. It’s fine, really.”