Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 103030 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103030 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
I wait, watching shadows dance around my bedroom, and hold my breath.
Nothing happens.
If I lean in to the moment—allow myself to absorb the feeling instead of waiting for it to flee—I like it. A lot. Lying with her without tightness in my abdomen is relaxing. Not having to plot an exit strategy from this entanglement is refreshing. The absence of a mental bulletin that chastises me for the events of the past twenty-four hours—a state of mind that’s always the case if a woman manages to make it to my bedroom—is satisfying.
But leaning in to this moment is dangerous. I’m not naïve.
Shaye stirs, her arm stretching before she settles into the blankets again. I hold my breath and look down to see if she’s awake. She looks sleepily up at me.
“Hey,” she says, her voice thick with sleep.
“Hey,” I whisper back.
She tucks her chin to my side, resting her forehead on my chest, before rolling over onto her back. It takes everything I have in me not to grab her and haul her back next to me again.
“Have you been awake long?” she says, her eyes struggling to stay open.
“Nope. Just woke up.”
She hums as her head nods subtly.
“It’s the middle of the night,” I tell her. “You can go back to sleep.”
Her head turns against the pillows and she opens her eyes. Under the moonlight, she looks younger, more unguarded. It stirs something deep inside me.
I lean over and press a kiss against her forehead. She smiles.
“What’s keeping you up?” she asks.
The question rolls softly off her lips. It comes across as a genuine thought, a natural inquiry. And I know that’s intentional. There’s a tilt to the words, a one-octave rise in the tone that tells me that she’s thinking. She’s curious. She’s worried.
I move so that I’m on my side and facing her.
“It’s hard to sleep when a beautiful woman is in your bed,” I say.
She grins again.
“What’s keeping you up?” I ask.
“Nothing. I just woke up.”
“But you aren’t going back to sleep, are you?”
She looks at me through her lashes, knowing I just read her like the sweet book that she is.
“I’m just thinking,” she says.
“No. You’re worrying.”
“Yes. I’m worrying.” She laughs softly. “You know me so well.”
“So, talk to me. Tell me what you’re worrying about.”
She pauses and mulls over my request. Then she rolls onto her side to face me too.
I can see the trepidation in her eyes, the glimmer of uncertainty that she can’t hide. I hate it. I hate everything about it.
After the night we had together, why could she possibly be worrying about anything? Didn’t I make her feel good? Didn’t I make her happy?
Doesn’t she want to be here?
I take her hand in mine and lace our fingers together. I stroke the top of her hand with my thumb. She watches the motion as she thinks.
“Be honest with me,” I tell her, bringing our interlocked hands to my mouth and kissing them. “Trust me.”
As I set them back on the blanket, she sighs.
“I don’t have a problem being honest. But the trust part is hard for me.” She nestles into the pillows. “It’s hard for me to just dive into this—whatever it is—headfirst. I worry.”
“Why?”
“You are Oliver Mason. There’s nothing I can do to you that would compromise that. But I’m … me. I don’t have the same level of mastery over my life that you do.”
I stare at her. “Sweetheart, I don’t understand.”
She shifts around on the pillows. I release her hand so she can use it to get situated. It doesn’t escape me that she puts some distance between us when she resettles, but I don’t comment on it. I’m too focused on what she has to say.
“In every relationship I’ve had, it’s always come down to a power struggle,” she says. “To live in that space with the other person, I had to give up something. I had to give up me or at least pieces of me.”
My chest aches as I listen to her. It downright hurts.
“My mom made it her mission in life to keep me in my place,” she says, the words picking up speed. “I had little control over my life until I finally moved out and in with Luca. I probably moved in with him so soon to escape my home life, I don’t know. I haven’t explored that enough, I suppose. But it was always ridiculous curfews, punishments for the smallest offenses, and embarrassing me in front of my friends.”
As she continues, her voice softens. Her eyes turn watery. Her hand finds mine.
I take her palm and give it the tightest squeeze I can give without making her wince. I want her to know I’m here, I’m listening—that she has me.
“And then Luca …” She presses her lips together, her chest rising and falling. “It started off good. He was nice and thoughtful. But looking back, I can see where things went wrong.”