That our whole relationship could be this, like tonight, like the last weeks have been—Jace taking care of me if only I let him in. Which, on the surface, doesn’t seem bad. The problem is that he does it without a second thought.
And I’m so used to protecting myself that I might not think of him, not in the same way he does for me.
Our relationship could be him looking out for me, bending for me, working his ass off to give meexactlywhat I want, his needs be damned. And he could be—not exactly forgotten like he was with all that complicated his and his mom’s relationship—but also not on the receiving end of the same care and affection as he gives to me.
It’s such a searing, painful realization that I know I need to do better.
To make sure he knows he’s seen.
That he’s not forgotten.
That…I love him.
Wherever you are feels like home.
I take a deep breath, make a promise to the universe and myself, and let go of my deepest darkest secret.
I finally picked right.
And I think I know exactly how to show Jace how much I love him.
So, even though I know she’s insanely busy after the events of tonight, I walk down the hall and wave down Attie.
“You’re good to go,” she says. “We’ll be wrapped up here in the next half hour.”
“That’s great. I just…” I falter, nerves me gripping tightly.
Her head tilts to the side, brown curls bouncing. “What is it?”
I push through my fear and say, “I need a favor.”
Forty
Jace
“Dude,”Brooks mutters a month later.
“What?” I say, eyes flicking from the screen up to my friend’s.
“Whipped.”
I punch his shoulder, but take the grumpydudeas how it’s intended and pocket my phone. “I’ll remind you that you’re the one who gave me the shove to pursue things with Marie.”
“So I did.” He lifts his beer bottle to his lips and drinks deeply. “Of course, I didn’t think I’d be sharing every meal with her.”
I’d get in his face if he meant those words.
But I can see his eyes, see they’re filled with devilry. And I know him well enough to understand when he’s just trying to piss me off.
Well, he’s succeeding.
“When are you heading back to France again?” I grumble.
Because it’s tradition.
“Nice try,” he mutters, picking up the remote and turning on the Eagles playoff game. “But considering you’ve offered to help me unload my storage container after the game’s done, you know that’s a pointless question.”
“Why did I agree to help you move again?”
