Page 10 of Rage Finish

It’s one night. We’re both authors. Colleagues. Nothing more, I remind myself.

Once we’re finished with dinner and drinks, we make our way back to reception for an extra key and toothbrush, then up to the room. The short trip is spent in stifling silence, but nothing I could say would make this situation better for either of us. When I told her to not worry about what happened a few years ago, I lied. Fucking lied to the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met.

It doesn’t help that since finding out she was attending, I’ve been tempted no less than a dozen times to read one of her books. Out of fear, I’ve abstained. I have a terrible inability to stop reading a book if I hate it. I’d push myself until the very last page, and I couldn’t risk starting something she poured her heart and soul into, only for me to want to throw the book across the room. It could be a literary masterpiece, but I’m in no place to find out.

We get ready for bed, and my nerves are shot. How the fuck am I supposed to sleep when there’s a goddess mere feet away? I avoid watching her slip under the covers even if I can envision each movement based on the sound of the sheets lifting. Quickly turning out the light, I manage, “Sleep well,” before turning over.

“Wait. Shouldn’t we set an alarm?”

“Oh… right.” I turn the little switch, my eyes squinting at the abrupt brightness. “What time do you want to get up?”

“The intro workshop is at eight, but maybe my publisher will be here in time to let me in my room before that. Is six too early? It’s too early, isn’t it? We can⁠—”

“Six is fine.” It comes out gruffer than I’d like, but seeing her curled up under the covers, wearing my clothes, I want nothing more than to join her. If I did, would she let me spoon her? Or would she tuck into me with her legs tangled with mine? I’ve been staring entirely too long and rush out, “I just mean that even if you didn’t need to access your room, I’d probably wake up that early for a workout.” Fuck. That made me sound like a pretentious gym-bro. “Or breakfast.” I work swiftly to set the alarm. “All good. Night.” There’s no way in hell I’ll be able to pass out any time soon, so I add, “Do you mind if I take something to help me sleep?”

“Not at all.”

I slip out of bed and rush to the bathroom, locating my gummies. I usually only take two milligrams of THC to help me sleep, but something tells me I’ll need more. Then again, I’ve never taken more than three. To play it safe, I stick to my usual dose and drink a small glass of water before heading back to bed.

It takes a while for the gummies to kick in, but I finally doze off. A few hours later, I wake to what sounds like someone next door getting laid. I chuckle to myself until I realize the soft moans can’t be coming from the other room—the wall behind my bed is hers. Listening closer, the sounds are coming from my right.

Is she…? No.

Maybe?

It could be that the whimpers are from a bad dream or worse—night terrors. My roommate in college had them, so I quickly slide out of bed, then sit beside her, carefully placing a hand on her shoulder. “Sloane? Are you all right?”

“I’m gonna co— Oh, shit!” She scrambles into a seated position.

“Sloane,” I try again. “Do you know where you are?”

“I… I think so. I just, uh… I had a weird dream. I’m sorry if I woke you up.”

“No, it’s okay,” I assure her.

“No, it’s not. I’m crashing in your room and ruining your sleep at”—she checks the time on the alarm clock—“two? I’m so sorry, Wyatt.”

“I meant it as a joke earlier about nightmares, but are you actually all right? If it’ll make you more comfortable, I can sleep on the floor or even in the bathroom.”

After a few attempts to catch her breath, she says softly, “No, this is your room. I’m so sorry for waking you. I promise I’m okay.”

“There’s no need to apologize. What do you need?”

“I’m pretty sure what I need isn’t an option right now,” she chuckles humorlessly.

I instinctively insist, “Try me.” I can’t make out her expression in the dark, and when she doesn’t reply, I try again, “What do you need?”

“I… I just need to get some sleep. I’ll be fine in the morning.”

“Sure you don’t need a cuddle?” I tease.

“Oh, I’m sure.” She lets out a soft laugh. “But I can’t have you writing this into your next book. You know, where the FMC has a se— I mean, nightmare and is rescued by the hot romance author.”

The slip-up isn’t lost on me, but I don’t want to embarrass her. There’s also the fact that she admitted she thinks I’m hot. I shouldn’t be hung up on it, but I’m confident that the little sentence is going to play in my head on repeat for the rest of the weekend. Was she really having a sex dream? Was it about me? A man can only hope.

“Not a bad premise,” I admit, “but I promise I would never use it in a book without your consent.”

“You’re one of the good ones, Wyatt. Maybe fictional men do exist in real life.”