Evelyn POVI came awake slowly to warm sheets, the faint scent of cedarwood, clean linen and a pillow that was softer than anything I owned. For a few blissful seconds, I just lay there with my eyes closed, letting the comfort soak into my bones.Then I opened my eyes and remembered — this wasn't my bed.The room was bathed in the amber glow of a single lamp on the nightstand. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined one wall, stuffed with paperbacks and vinyl records crammed sideways into every gap. A half-empty mug of tea sat on the coffee table beside an open laptop, its screen long gone dark. Vincent's apartment — tasteful but lived-in, warm in a way that expensive places rarely were.And there, in the easy chair beside the bed, was Vincent Hayes.He was asleep.His head was tilted to one side, his honey-brown hair falling across his forehead in soft, messy waves. One arm hung over the armrest, his long fingers loosely curled. His tie was gone, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeve
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