Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 105708 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105708 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
He saunters toward me, setting the cup on the counter. “I’d apologize,” he says, “but I just can’t be sorry.” His hands find my waist, and he turns me to face him, his touch somehow more electric than ever before, the collision of our eyes, which is always intense, now downright combustible. “I like you naked and in my bed too much,” he adds, a rough quality to his voice that is somehow both silk and sandpaper at the same time. And as we look at each other, there is something I cannot name expanding between us. Something happening between us. Something rich with those possibilities we’ve vowed to explore.
And suddenly, I can’t seem to catch my breath. “I…uh…” I swallow hard. “It turns out I sleep really well in your bed, when I haven’t been sleeping well really ever.” That confession is out before I can stop it, exposed all over again, and in turn, I change the subject: “Why didn’t you wake me up? My flight—”
“Your flight leaves when I say it leaves, and I didn’t wake you up because I like you in my bed.” He reaches for the coffee cup. “I made this special for you, and on the nightstand there are chocolate croissants that I had delivered from the bakery on the corner.”
“Thank you,” I say. “For an arrogant bastard, you’re very considerate.”
“Let’s keep that as our secret,” he says. “I don’t want anyone but you believing I’ve grown a heart.” I’d ask if he has, but he quickly—almost too quickly—moves on, offering me the cup. “Try it.”
I accept the cup, my gaze lowering as the brush of our fingers sends a zing of sizzling heat rushing up my arm, and I wonder if Nick feels what I feel. This crazy, fierce magnetic pull that wants me to just melt into him. I take a sip, the secret rich beverage surprising my taste buds, my gaze lifting to his. “Is that Baileys I taste?”
“You know your liqueur,” he says.
“Only the sweet-tasting, wonderful stuff, like Irish cream,” I say. “And are you trying to get me drunk? Because you know I’m a lightweight. Or if you don’t know, you’re about to if I finish this.”
“Nothing wrong with a little buzz,” he says, stroking my cheek, his tone sobering. “We need to talk, sweetheart, and I thought I’d help you relax a little in advance.”
My defenses prickle, and the fear that I’ve read him wrong, us wrong, comes at me hard and fast. “Nick, if you regret last night and that talk of a new hard rule—”
“I don’t,” he says, taking the cup from me and setting it down. “We need to talk about the winery, and I need to be your attorney for a few hours. And I know that’s not easy territory for you. It’s not going to be easy territory for us.”
“Oh.”
“Oh,” he says, cupping my face. “Sweetheart, I am an arrogant bastard. A ruthless, arrogant bastard.”
“Your point?”
His lips curve. “Your point,” he says at my obvious agreement. “My point,” he says, softening his voice, “is that all the good that is in me is here with you—hell, maybe because of you. So, I don’t just want those possibilities. I’m pretty damn sure that I need them, which means you. Stop looking for the bad. Unless you—”
“I don’t want to back out,” I say, realizing only then how much I mean that statement. “Hard rule: possibilities.”
“Good,” he says, his hands settling back on my waist. “Drink your coffee. Take a hot bath if you want, and relax. No one uses that tub, so you should. There’s no rush. I’ll be in the kitchen at the bar working when you’re ready. Okay?”
“Okay,” I say, and then he’s releasing me and walking to the door, gone before I can stop him, though I’m not sure why I want to. I just do. I want to pull him back, but he disappears. I inhale as he departs and face the counter, staring at my mascara-stained face, which he actually seems to find acceptable. Macom would not have thought this was acceptable, and I think back to all the times I thought I was raw and real with Macom. I was never real with Macom, and as for raw, well, perhaps, but in a cutting, harsh way, not like what I have with Nick, which I can’t even name or truly describe.
But if that is what Nick wants, raw and real, then raw and real means he’s willing to let me see all those hidden pieces of himself I try to paint. And if he lets me see his, I’ll need, even want, to show him mine. But I’m not sure I can take that risk, even with him. Even if I want to. And I do. I want to trust Nick. Maybe I can. Maybe he can handle all of me. Maybe I need to know before I get any further in this. Or maybe not. Maybe I just need to enjoy him while I can.