Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 112917 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 376(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 112917 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 376(@300wpm)
He was definitely still half-asleep, but just to be sure, I reached for his phone on the bedside table and got him to open it for me before scrolling to his email app.
Just like this morning, my conscience warred with my need to protect him. Technically, Zane knew Violet had someone monitoring his email remotely, and he’d already consented for the security team to have access to it, but I still felt a little uncomfortable invading his privacy.
“Can I look at your email, Z?” I murmured.
“’Course. Nothing you can’t see. You can look at all of it. Tell you everything anyway. ’Cept about the money, but I told Landry I was going to tell you. I can’t F-OFF,” he said sadly. “Don’t wanna keep secrets. I’d hate if you got a Peruvian healer just ’cause I had a billion dollars.”
He was making less than zero sense, but his mention of a billion dollars reminded me of his odd question when we were playing the horseradish game. Did he have more money than people speculated? Did it matter? There came a point with obscene wealth where the zeroes no longer seemed to make much difference.
There was nothing new in his email other than the typical work messages, several photos from the trip to Barlo from his gran, and an email from Bodhi about meeting up for lunch before the Amsterdam show.
The email from Bodhi was friendly enough. Definitely nothing in it about his mom. And the email from Gran didn’t mention his mother, either.
I set the phone back down on the nightstand and wrapped my arms around him. “It was just a dream.”
“Thank god you’re here,” he said, sounding relieved. “I’m sorry for being scared.”
My heart lurched. “Never be sorry for being scared. What does that even mean? You can’t help it if you’re scared, Z. Bad dreams are scary.”
He sucked in a shaky breath. “I wish I could tape my mouth closed. Or that you’d sleep with a white noise machine so you couldn’t hear me.”
I brushed his hair back so I could try to see his face. He tucked his chin to keep from looking at me.
“Z,” I said softly. “If I called out for help in the night because of a bad dream, would you expect me to apologize for being scared?”
He shook his head but didn’t say anything.
“And if I felt comforted by your arms, would you think less of me?”
He lifted his face up to glare at me. “Of course not.”
I lifted my eyebrows. “The prosecution rests, Your Honor.”
He settled back down against my chest. “I don’t want to be the guy you have to protect.”
I wanted to laugh, but I sensed that would be the worst possible reaction. “That’s upsetting, considering I enjoy protecting you.”
“I’m not talking about your job. I want you to… to care for me.”
His words hit me with a jolt, filling me with a kind of vulnerable hope I wasn’t prepared for.
“I’m not talking about my job, either, Z,” I confessed to the top of his head. “I do care about you. As a friend. As a good human. As a… as a man.” I swallowed, backing away from any further verbalization of my feelings. “And keeping you safe is something I have a vested interest in. I want you safe because I want you to be happy. And, selfishly, I want you to continue to be in my life for a very long time.”
His arms tightened around me. “That’s… nice.”
I let out a soft laugh. “At least you didn’t say fine this time.”
“I care about you, too.” His words were quiet, but I felt the truth in them, and it warmed me from the inside out.
I pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “Are we going to talk about how the nightmares started after the Stamper showed up?”
“No, thank you,” he said in an attempt to make it sound light and singsongy.
“I think you need to see someone, Zane.”
“Been there.”
I ran my fingers through his hair. “Micki can find you a therapist who’s good and discreet. The legal team can get all the NDAs in place—”
“It’s not that.”
I waited for him to explain.
“It’ll bring up a bunch of other shit I don’t want to talk about.”
I wanted to push, to convince him it would be a healthy choice, and even if it got worse before it got better, it would get better. But I knew this time of night wasn’t the time for making that argument. I’d give him time to think about it, but I’d bring it up again with him and soon.
“Tell me about the money,” I said instead, hoping to throw him a softball. “You said you were going to tell me about the money.”
“Oh.” His fingers caressed the neck of my shirt. “I’m… I’m rich.”