The most amount of money I ever had was from the check his mother cut me. Theleave-my-son-alonecheck. The one I used to put the downpayment on this beautiful house I own, and the beautiful business I own too. I never want to see all those zeros in my account again—or at least for a long time. I wouldn’t know what to do with it.
“The summer carnival is coming up this weekend,” Christian says, his hands moving up and down my thighs. “Can I take you?”
My hips shift unconsciously, accidentally grinding over him, and it pulls a sharp, frustrated breath out of me. I hold onto his hair. “As a date?”
His breath hitches. “We did it all the time.”
My cheeks go all pink, and I know because I can feel the blood rushing everywhere. “I remember.”
“Be my date.”
I arch a brow, teasing. “Are you asking or telling?”
“Both.”
I sniff a laugh. “Ask me nicely and I might say yes.”
“Lana Aurora Gomez,” Christian smiles, “may I have the great honor of taking you on a date to the summer carnival?”
“Hmm. No.” I shrug.
I Try to stand but he pulls me back down onto his lap. “No?”
“I don’t know,” I tease. “I’ll have to sleep on it.”
“You’re my date,” he says and his hand comes around my jaw, just before he kisses me.
“Okay,” I breathe on his lips.
“Eat dinner with me tonight,” Christian says. “As my date.”
“Another date?”
“Yeah.” He smiles. “Another date in our kitchen.”
“Ourkitchen?” I arch a brow. I like that more than I’ll admit.
“Our kitchen,” Christian says. “Every night.”
“For how long?”
Christian’s cheeks go pink. “Ever?”
I arch a brow. “Is that a question or are you telling me?”
“I’m telling you,” he says and holds me more firmly. “We will always eat dinner together.”
“I agree to your terms, Mr. Calloway,” I say and kiss his pink cheek. “And yes, I’ll be your date to the carnival this weekend.”
Christian smiles up at me, his eyes sparkling and soft—filled with love and hope. “I love you.”
“I know,” I breathe.
Two weeks after his birthday. After the picnic in the gardens. That’s when ithappens.
Christian walks in through the apartment door, eyes dark and heavy, bags colored like bruises. He tosses his keys toward the entry table with scattered mail, and he misses. The keys dropping onto the wooden floors.
I sit up, closing the book and setting it on the coffee table. And I know before he reaches me.
