Chapter 57 Morning Light

Chapter 57 Morning Light
The alarm screamed like a wounded animal.
Hallie's hand shot out from beneath the blankets, slapping blindly at the nightstand until she found the offending device and silenced it. The room was gray with early morning light, the kind of pale, watery luminescence that preceded sunrise in Paris. And her head was pounding with the relentless rhythm of a drum corps marching directly through her skull.
She groaned, pressing her palms against her eyes. The wine. Definitely the wine. She had drunk more in one evening than she had in the past year combined, and her body was making its disapproval abundantly clear.
"You okay?"
Seth's voice came from beside her, rough with sleep, his arm still draped across her waist. Hallie turned her head carefully—carefully, because any movement sent spikes of pain through her temples—and found him watching her with those warm brown eyes, his hair disheveled, his face creased from the pillow.
"I'm dying," she whispered.
"You're hungover."
"Same thing."
Seth laughed, the sound low and sympathetic, and pressed a kiss to her shoulder before untangling himself from the blankets. "Stay there. I'll make breakfast."
Hallie watched him rise from the bed, and suddenly the hangover became significantly less important.
Seth Sanders was, had always been, and would always be the most attractive male she had ever laid eyes on. It was an objective fact, as undeniable as gravity or the speed of light. The early morning light caught the planes of his back, the ridges of muscle that spoke to years of training, the graceful line of his spine disappearing into the low-slung pajama pants he had worn to bed.
He caught her staring and smiled, slow and knowing. "See something you like?"
"Don't let it go to your head."
"Too late."
He disappeared into the kitchen, and Hallie collapsed back against the pillows, her heart racing for reasons that had nothing to do with the wine.

The shower was a revelation.
Hot water pounded against her skin, washing away the last traces of the previous night's excesses. Hallie stood beneath the spray with her eyes closed, letting the steam clear her head, letting the heat soothe her aching muscles. She borrowed Seth's shampoo—something vaguely woodsy, overwhelmingly masculine—and tried not to think about how natural it felt to be here, in his space, surrounded by his things.
When she finally emerged, wrapped in a towel that smelled like him, she faced the unfortunate reality of her wardrobe.
Yesterday's clothes still hung over the chair where she had left them, faintly redolent of wine and food and the particular mustiness of a long evening indoors. They would have to do—she had no time to return to her apartment and change, not if she wanted to arrive at the studio before Madame Leclerc.
She dressed quickly, avoiding her reflection in the mirror. The burgundy blouse was wrinkled. The black trousers had lost their crisp crease. Her hair was still damp, curling around her face in ways she couldn't control.
This would have to be enough.

The kitchen smelled like heaven.
Seth stood at the stove, still shirtless—still distractingly, devastatingly shirtless—flipping bacon in a cast iron pan. The table was already set: two plates, two cups, a pot of coffee, a basket of toast, a small dish of jam. Hallie stopped in the doorway, overwhelmed by the simple domesticity of it.
"Are you trying to feed a football team?" she asked.
Seth glanced over his shoulder, grinning. "You need protein. It helps with hangovers."
"I need about a gallon of coffee."
"Coffee's ready." He nodded toward the pot. "Help yourself."
She poured a cup and settled at the table, wrapping her hands around the warmth. The first sip was divine—rich and dark and exactly what her throbbing head required. The second sip allowed her to open her eyes and properly appreciate the view.
Seth was plating the bacon, the muscles in his back shifting with each movement. The morning light caught the golden undertones of his skin, the faint scars that crossed his shoulders—evidence of battles she would never forget. He was beautiful. Absolutely, impossibly beautiful.
She kept stealing glances at him over the rim of her coffee cup. One glance. Another. A third, longer than the others, her eyes tracing the line of his spine down to the waistband of his pajama pants.
Seth laughed.
Hallie froze, her face flooding with heat. "What?"
"You're staring."
"I am not."
"You absolutely are." He carried the bacon to the table, setting the plate beside the eggs. "It's okay. I don't mind."
"It's not my fault." Hallie reached for a piece of toast, anything to occupy her hands. "You look like the David. People stare at the David all day in Florence. It's a recognized phenomenon."
Seth's eyebrows rose. "Seriously? Like the David? The statue?"
"Michelangelo's David. Yes." She bit into her toast with more force than necessary. "It's a compliment."
"In that case, you can stare all day too, if you like." He slid into the chair across from her, his grin widening. "I'll never wear a shirt again. If that's how you like me."
"Silly." Hallie shook her head, but she was smiling now, the embarrassment fading into something warmer. "I like you with or without a shirt. But definitely without a shirt, you are even more charming."
His eyes darkened slightly. "Am I now?"
Hallie realized, too late, that she had walked into a trap.
Seth rose from his chair and moved toward her with the slow, deliberate grace of a predator who knew his prey had nowhere to run. Hallie sat frozen, half-bite of toast still in her hand, her heart hammering against her ribs.
He reached her chair. His hands came up to cup her face, tilting her chin, and then he was kissing her.
The toast dropped onto her plate.
Hallie stood, not breaking the kiss, her fingers finding his shoulders, his neck, his hair. He tasted like coffee and bacon and something that was purely Seth, and she wanted to drown in him, to lose herself in the warmth of his mouth and the strength of his arms and the steady, certain knowledge that she was loved.
When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, Seth rested his forehead against hers.
"Stay," he whispered. "Skip work. Spend the day with me."
"I can't." The words were agony. "Madame Leclerc will kill me."
"She won't."
"She absolutely will. And then she'll resurrect me and kill me again."
Seth sighed, pulling back. "Fine. But you owe me."
"I owe you?"
"A full day. No interruptions. No collections, no deadlines, no Madame Leclerc." He tucked a strand of damp hair behind her ear. "Just us."
Hallie looked at him—at the man who had broken her heart and mended it and broken it again, at the person she had loved since she was seventeen years old, at the future she was finally, finally allowing herself to imagine.
"Just us," she agreed.

The subway ride to the studio was a blur.
Hallie stood in the crowded car, hanging onto the overhead strap, her mind still back in Seth's apartment. The taste of him lingered on her lips. The warmth of his body was imprinted on her skin. She smiled at nothing, at everything, and the other passengers gave her a wide berth.
Her phone pinged.
She glanced down, expecting a message from Seth about last night, about this morning, about the evening ahead.
Instead, she found a photograph.
Him. Shirtless. In his kitchen, the morning light catching the ridges of his abs, the curve of his shoulders, the lazy smile that was Seth if he could be a facial expression. The caption read: A souvenir. Since you left before I could give you a proper goodbye.
Hallie's face flamed. She looked around the subway car, certain that everyone could see, that everyone knew, that her burning cheeks and racing heart were broadcasting her feelings to the world.
No one was looking. No one cared.
She saved the photo.

The studio was already buzzing when she arrived.
Hallie slipped through the door at 8:47 AM, more than one hour later than her usual arrival time. Heads turned. Whispers followed in her wake. Camille, the sharp-cheeked girl, shot her a look of pure venom—the kind of look that said I arrived at 7:30 and you think you can waltz in whenever you please?
Hallie didn't care.
She settled at her desk, pulled out her sketches, and smiled at the blank page. The shadows hummed beneath her skin, curious about her mood, pleased by her happiness. She let them be.
"Someone's in a good mood," Margot observed, sliding into the chair beside her. "Good night?"
"Something like that."
"You're blushing."
"I am not."
"You absolutely are." Margot grinned. "It's a good look on you. The mysterious intern, finally human."
Hallie laughed, and the sound surprised her—bright and genuine, the laughter of someone who had forgotten, for a moment, to be afraid.
Across the room, Madame Leclerc emerged from her office, her dark eyes scanning the studio with predatory precision. They landed on Hallie, lingered for a moment, and moved on.
No reprimand. No cutting remark. Just... acknowledgment.
Hallie picked up her pencil and began to work.
She was in love with Seth Sanders. Had been for years, would be for years more, would probably be for the rest of her life. That was a fact, as immutable as gravity or the speed of light.