Connor
My internal clock was a proper bastard.
No matter where I was in the world—whether I was sleeping in my own bed back at Ashford Manor, in a fancy hotel in Edinburgh, or on the top floor of a glass tower in London—my brain automatically kicked into gear at 5:15 AM. Years of professional rugby had hardwired my body to wake up before the sun, expecting a pitch, a barbell, or a long stretch of tarmac.
I opened my eyes to total darkness, save for the faint glow of the digital clock on the bedside table. 5:22 AM.
Beside me, Edward was buried deep under the duvet, wrapped around three of the eight decorative pillows like a golden retriever that had claimed the whole sofa. His platinum hair was stuck up in every direction, his face pressed into the linen, breathing slow and heavy.
