“When you first got there, you found a tiny bookstore on your walk to the train station. It was full of vintage romances and you found the best pirate one for Annie and mailed it to her.”
And he’s not done: “Last winter your window cracked during a snowstorm and your room was freezing. You duct-taped the crack, and it took your landlord an inexcusable amount of time to get it fixed.” I’m about to interject, but he continues. “You found a random dog outside your apartment building a few months ago and you knocked on door after door for two hours until you finally found his owner. A sweet older lady who was distraught at losing him. She gave you a five-dollar bill as a thank-you.”
I’m speechless. Can’t find a single word to voice how I’m feeling.
He leans in the smallest bit closer. “I’ve always listened, Madison. I only got up and left the room when you’d start talking about the chef you were sleeping with.”
I’m shaking, but James is steady as ever.
“Ask me why,” he says, those three words enough to set my heart on fire.
“Why did you leave the room, James?”
He steps closer. Body heat crowding me. I want more of it. “Because I have been so damn jealous of any other man in your bed.”
I can’t breathe. James Huxley has been jealous of the other men in my life? What does this mean?
I know what it means. . . .
My gaze drops to his mouth and catches there. Everything shifting and irrevocably changing.
I watch his words form, quiet and heavy with tension. “Say something.”
“I . . . have contemplated putting a laxative in a certain redhead’s coffee lately,” I admit quietly so maybe he won’t hear. But this seems to encourage him to get even closer to me. The front of our bodies touching ever so slightly.
“You’ve been jealous of Jeanine?” His eyes have sparklers in them.
I nod.
“Don’t put laxatives in her coffee, please. She’s nice.”
I scrunch my nose. “Ugh, she’s nice! You’re making it worse.”
“You don’t want her to be nice?” The back of his knuckles skim cautiously against my jawline. I want to arch into his touch like a cat.
“No. I want to hear that you broke up because she was rude and tacky or something like that. BecauseI’mnot nice.”
“That’s not why we broke up,” he says, still giving away no hints about how their relationship ended. Or who ended it. “What else are you thinking?”
“That your kiss didn’t cure me.” I say this to his mouth. “It made everything worse.”
“For me too.” His hand cradles my jaw and his thumb sweeps across my bottom lip, tugging with the slightest roughness—evidence of his pent-up desire.
This is really happening, isn’t it? I’ve been trying to keep a lid on my feelings for him, constantly reminding myself that we are intertwined in too many ways to pursue something casual. But it hasn’t been enough to overpower what’s right in front of me. What’s palpable between us. This isn’t casual.
We are good together. I feel good with him.
“James . . .” I say, breathless, sliding my hand up his chest. “I think we should—”
His head dips, and he kisses me—hard—before I fully get the words out. It’s not the same as the one we shared in the cottage. It’s not measured or restrained. It’s desperate.
But just as quickly as we connect, he pulls away. “Shit. You were gonna saykiss,right? I should have asked—”
I grab the back of his neck and pull him down.More. Again. Yes.
There is no hesitation. James captures my mouth like a storm. It is thunder and lightning and wind. Both his hands sink into the back of my hair like he’s trying to hold on to me for dear life. I grip the front of his shirt, wanting him as close as possible.
Our mouths are open, pressing and devouring. Angling and then angling again—and it’s so good I don’t even realize we haven’t used tongue for this kiss until James’s sweeps into my mouth.
