As he kisses me, deep and claiming and sweet, I realize my own answer isn’t in words at all. It’s in the way my arms lock around his neck, in the way I meet his rhythm, that I know he’ll be the best person I can give my heart to.
A man this resilient, this determined to drive me crazy, will do everything in his power to keep it safe.
Knowing he’s going to want to celebrate this relationship upgrade of ours all night, I do us a favor and push him off. When the confusion comes flooding in on his part as he lands on his back, I answer him by straddling his hips. Now, on top, I can see his heated daze much better.
There’s no doubt in my mind that he loves me, too.
“Enough mushy talk.” Rolling my hips, his moan fills me with confidence. “We’ve got plenty of time to get all soft.” An eternity, in short. “For now, tell me how this position works.”
Jinx bites his bottom lip and moves to cup my hips. “Happy to.”
His husky instructions are a low rumble against my skin, a new language we write together in the dark. And as I follow his lead, giving myself over to the rhythm and the rising tide, everything else just… fades away.
13
Jinx
Epilogue
The rumble of my bike is as simple as an add-on to my already perfect world. With Raven’s arms locked around my waist, her cheek a warm pressure between my shoulder blades. We’ve left Willowbrook Ridge and the noise behind, trading it for winding asphalt and the green, growing scent of the woods that swallow the road leading to Meadow Falls.
It’s a stupid idea. Probably. Taking the woman who is, for all intents and purposes, my entire universe, to a piss-ant town’s muddy dock to sit in the sun and do nothing all day. Today, I need some peace and quiet. Some solitude with the love of my life.
We pull up to the rickety public docks. The lake is a sheet of hammered bronze under the late afternoon sun. Raven climbs off, pulling her helmet free. Her hair is a wild, dark mess, andher eyes are squinted against the light. She takes in the faded sign, the lone, grumpy-looking flock of geese waddling by.
Turning, she watches as I fumble with my saddlebag, pulling out a pair of collapsed fishing poles.
“Fishing,” she says, the word flat.
“Fishing,” I confirm, fetching the tackle box from the saddlebag next before leading her away from the bike.
She doesn’t sigh. Doesn’t complain. Just nods, a little smile playing on her lips.
That’s it. That’s why I love this woman so fucking much. She’ll follow me into a brawl without blinking, and she’ll follow me into utter boredom with the same steady trust. It shakes me up every time.
We find a spot at the end of the dock, our legs dangling over the water. I show her how to thread the worm—she makes a face but does it—and casts the line. It’s clumsy. Her bobber lands too close to the shore. She doesn’t care. She settles in, leaning back on her hands, and just… relaxes.
The silence isn’t empty. It’s filled with the lap of water, the distant cry of a bird, the soft creak of old wood. Casting my line, I show her how a pro does it. All without tangling my line with a submerged branch.
An hour passes by, and the only thing we’ve caught is the sun. Raven digs into her jacket pocket and pulls out a neatly rolled blunt. She lights it, takes a deep pull, and holds the smoke in before exhaling a slow, fragrant cloud that mixes with the smell of lake water and pine. She offers it to me. I shake my head.
The weed works its magic on her slowly. The serious set of her mouth softens. She starts noticing things—the way the light dapples through the leaves, the absurdly diligent path of a water bug skating across the surface. A giggle escapes her, then another, muffled against her knuckles. It’s a sound I’d trade my bike for.
This is Raven unguarded. Raven at peace.
I’m content just to watch her, to feel the sun on my neck and her shoulder brushing mine. This is the space I wanted. This right here.
“This is actually kinda nice,” she muses, her words slightly syrupy. “But these fish really suck. We’ve been here forever.”
“Patience, woman,” I say, bumping her shoulder with mine. She doesn’t scowl at me, simply leaning in with me so we remain connected. I have to try not to grin, or she’ll get flustered and pull away.
“I have no patience,” she declares, taking another hit. “Maybe it’s the worms. I wouldn’t want to snack on those either.”
Rambling, she kicks her legs. Her feet don’t touch the water, but I can’t blame any fish for being scared by her giant boots.
She’s holding the blunt between two fingers of her right hand, her fishing pole loosely in her left. We lapse back into the quiet, the giggles subsiding into a contented hum from her direction.
Then it finally happens. Our patience has been rewarded.
