Chapter 320
**Sara**
I stretched like a lazy cat, enjoying the softness beneath me. The morning sun painted patterns on the wall through the floor-to-ceiling windows, creating dancing shadows that reminded me of abstract art.
"Okay, hair first." I dragged myself to the bathroom and plugged in the hairdryer. The warm air blasted against my scalp as I worked through section by section.
"Look at me, being all responsible and adult-like." I caught my reflection in the mirror, making faces at myself like I used to do when I was a kid. Some habits die hard.
My phone buzzed just as I finished the last strand.
"Well, well, well," I smirked at the screen. "Look who finally remembered I exist."
I grabbed my phone, settling back against the headboard with a little bounce that made my still-warm hair flutter around my shoulders. Tom's message lit up my screen, making my heart do that familiar little skip.
Tom: Good morning, sunshine. Just woke up from the most incredible dream about us.
I typed back, adjusting my bathrobe when it slipped off one shoulder. My fingers hovered over the keyboard for a moment before I decided to play it cool.
Me: Oh, really? The great Thomas Blackwood dreams about little old me?
Tom: You weren't so little in my dream.
Me: Wow. Smooth. Real smooth. Care to elaborate on this alleged dream?
Tom: We were at this beach house. You wore this flowing white dress, bare feet in the sand. The sunset painted everything gold.
Me: Mhmm. Go on.
I pulled my legs up, getting comfortable. A smile played at the corners of my mouth as I waited for his response, already imagining the scene he was painting.
Tom: You were laughing at something I said. That laugh where your nose scrunches up. Then you took my hand and pulled me toward the waves.
Me: Getting pretty specific there, Professor.
Tom: The details are very vivid. It must be because it was such a realistic dream.
Me: Or because you're making it up right now.
Tom: We danced in the shallow water. You kept complaining about getting your dress wet, but you didn't stop.
Me: Now I know you're lying. I would never risk ruining a white dress, not even in some romantic beach fantasy of yours. I treat my clothes with way too much respect for that.
Tom: It's my dream, Sara. Don't question the logic.
Me: I'm questioning everything about this so-called dream. Including its existence. And your convenient memory of such specific details.
Tom: The waves crashed around us, and you looked up at me with those eyes...
Me: Which eyes would those be? The ones I apparently have in your completely fabricated fantasy?
Tom: The ones that make me forget my own name.
Me: Smooth talker. But I'm still not buying it.
Tom: How can you be so sure it wasn't real?
Me: Because I know you, Thomas Blackwood. You're lying in your fancy hotel room, probably drinking some overpriced coffee, making up stories to mess with me.
Tom: I would never.
Me: You would, and you are. I've known you long enough to recognize when you're spinning tales.
Tom: Such accusations! I'm hurt. Wounded, even. You're breaking my delicate heart here.
Me: Save the dramatics for your business meetings. This dream is about as real as your claim that you don't color-code your sock drawer.
Tom: I told you, that's just efficient organization. Anyone would do the same.
Me: Sure it is. Just like this 'dream' totally happened. Next, you'll tell me unicorns pranced through it, too.
Tom: You're very skeptical this morning. More than usual, I'd say.
Me: And you're very creative with your fiction writing. Maybe you should consider a career change.
Tom: Maybe I just miss you. Did that thought cross your mind?
My heart did a little flip at his words. Damn him and his ability to make me melt with just one sentence.
Me: Maybe I miss you too. A little. Tiny bit.
Tom: Just a tiny bit?
Me: Microscopic. Barely noticeable. Like a speck of dust on a telescope lens.
Tom: That's funny because I miss you enough to fill the Sydney Opera House. Multiple times over, with standing room only.
Me: You're ridiculous.
Tom: And yet you're smiling right now.
I touched my face, catching myself mid-grin. How did he do that?
Me: I am not.
Tom: Liar. I can picture that exact smile you're trying to hide.
Me: You're thousands of miles away. You can't see anything.
Tom: Don't need to. I know you're curled up somewhere comfortable, probably wearing those silk pajamas, fighting not to smile at your phone.
I glanced down at my navy blue bathrobe, smirking.
Me: Wrong! I'm in a bathrobe. Your psychic powers need work.
Tom: A bathrobe? My bathrobe?
Me: Maybe...
Tom: Now that's an image I'll carry into my meetings.
Me: Stop picturing me in your clothes and go get ready for work.
Tom: But picturing you in my clothes is much more entertaining than thinking about merger negotiations.
Me: You're impossible. And late. Go shower.
Tom: Fine, fine. But first - what else are you wearing of mine?
Me: Wouldn't you like to know? Go. Shower. Work.
Tom: You're no fun. But you're right. Need to get ready for this endless parade of meetings.
Me: Poor baby. All those important business decisions to make.
Tom: I'd rather make decisions about what to do with you when I get back.
Me: Shower. Now.
Tom: So bossy. I like it. But what if I need help washing my back?
Me: Pretty sure you can manage on your own, big guy. You've had years of practice.
Tom: But it's more fun with company. And since you're already wearing my bathrobe...
Me: Nice try. But you're about 8000 or 9000 miles too far for that kind of offer.
Tom: Distance is just a number. Like age. And speed limits.
Me: Did you just compare our relationship to breaking traffic laws?
Tom: I'm sleep-deprived and missing you. My metaphors aren't at their best.
Me: Clearly. Go get ready before you compare us to tax evasion or something equally romantic.
Tom: There's an idea. "Baby, you make me want to commit financial fraud." How's that for a pickup line?
Me: Terrible. The worst. Never say that again.
Tom: You love it. But that's fine. I'll go be a responsible adult now. Would you like a video call later tonight, after my meetings wrap up?
Me: Sure. I'll be here, probably raiding your fancy snack collection again. Those imported chocolates you hide behind the protein bars? It's not hidden anymore.
Tom: Those are special occasion chocolates!
Me: And me missing you isn't a special occasion?
Tom: You make everything a special occasion. And now I'm definitely hiding those chocolates better when I get back.
Me: Too late. Already found all your hiding spots. The ones in your office drawer? Gone. Behind the coffee maker? History. Under that stack of economics papers? Devoured.
Tom: You're a menace to my chocolate collection. A beautiful, unstoppable menace.
Me: Should've thought about that before giving me free reign of your apartment. Your chocolate was doomed from the start.
Tom: I'll have to install a chocolate safe. With retinal scanning. And laser beams.
Me: Please. I'd crack that in five minutes. Probably less if I'm having chocolate cravings.
Tom: Note to self: Never underestimate Sara Parker's determination when it comes to sweets.
Me: Wise decision. Now, go shower before your meetings. Stop procrastinating.
Tom: Fine. But only because you insist.
Me: Go shower, you impossible man. Your meetings won't attend themselves.
Tom: Leaving now. But first... want to know what I'd do if I was there right now? With you in nothing but my bathrobe?
I bit my lip, heat rising to my cheeks as I read his message.
Me: Tom! Meetings!
Tom: Just imagine my hands sliding that robe off your shoulders, trailing kisses down your neck, pressing you against the wall until you make those little sounds I love so much...
My breath caught. The man was trying to kill me from across the ocean.
Me: You're evil. Pure evil. Now, I won't be able to think about anything else.
Tom: Mission accomplished. I'll catch you on a video call later, beautiful. Try not to miss me too much. Or do... I like knowing you're thinking about me.
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