Page 32 of Danny

“I can’t. Once I’m up, I’m up.”

“That might be the saddest thing you’ve ever told me. And that includes the two-years thing.”

I laugh. It’s barely dawn, she’s half-asleep and talking nonsense into my skin, and she’s easily the funniest person I’ve ever met. I didn’t know I wanted funny. I thought I wanted efficient. Organized. Someone who fit neatly into my systems.

Anna doesn’t fit. She breaks them open. And right now, with her warmth draped over me, I can’t remember why I ever thought those systems mattered.

“There’s coffee on the desk,” I say quietly.

“You made coffee?”

“The machine is programmed.” I say as I kiss down her neck.

“Of course it is.” She cracks one eye open, glances at the mug, then closes it again. “I’d have to move.”

“I can bring it to you.”

Both eyes open. She pulls back just enough to study me, hair wild, pillow creases on her cheek, mascara smudged. She looks beautifully wrecked.

“You’d bring me coffee in bed,” she says, like she’s testing the words.

“I offered.”

“Danny Sterling. Walking across the room. Handing a woman coffee. In his own bed.” She gestures vaguely at me, at the penthouse, at the entire concept of who I am. “You.”

“I’m aware.”

She stares at me another beat, then sits up. The sheet slips down her back. I watch the elegant line of her spine as she stretches, and the urge to pull her back down and kiss every vertebra is almost overwhelming. Instead, I get up and bring her the coffee.

She wraps both hands around the mug, inhales, and takes a sip.

“Good?” I ask.

“Insanely good. What is this, the fancy kind? The kind with the farmer’s life story on the bag?”

“Jamaican Blue Mountain.”

“Of course it is.” She smiles at me over the rim, sleepy-eyed and warm. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

“Last night was…”

“Yeah.” I don’t have better words either.

She takes another sip. “I need to go home before the staff starts arriving.”

The words land like a weight behind my ribs. I don’t like it, but I understand. The last thing either of us needs is gossip.

“I can get my driver.”

“No, I’ll take the subway. I need a minute to come back down to Earth.”

I walk her to the elevator in her wrinkled green dress, hair twisted into a messy knot. She looks exactly like a woman who spent the night in a man’s bed. My bed.

I kiss her before the doors close—deep, slow, my hand on her jaw. She makes that soft sound again and fists my t-shirt, holding on a second longer than necessary.

“Read chapter twenty-three today,” she whispers. “The letter.”