“Fuck, you made a beautiful bride?—”
I’m done.I want to stop. I don’t want to come.
“Matrimony.”
He freezes midstroke, and the tension in the room clears like somebody opened up a window. Before I even realize it, he’s pulled out and is releasing my wrists. His weight disappears like he’s vanished into thin air.
“Look at me,” he says. “You’re in control again.”
I face him and see the reassurance in his eyes. “Was it the sex or the things I said? Are you hurt?”
I shake my head. “What you said. I just . . . I needed to stop.”
He nods.
It’s weird he’s not fighting me on it; I would have expected him to.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“We will absolutely be talking about it. But not right now.”
He nods again, opening his mouth to speak, but then he closes it. Whatever he’s thinking pains him. His gaze searches mine. “Can I hold you?”
“I’m still mad,” I whisper, looking up at him. It’s not a total lie, but the fury I held earlier has quieted to a simmer. Sadder.
“I know,” he replies. His brows still raised, he waits for my permission to touch me.
He settles in next to me, wraps his arms around my middle, and folds me into his chest. I don’t have the energy to be stubborn. His fingers linger on my back, and his lips brush over my temple.
I close my eyes and allow myself to lean into him the way I want, melt into him, and accept the comfort he’s offering. Somehow, that’s enough for me.
For now.
She lets me take her to work, but the drive is silent. She barely even said any words to Odin when we dropped him off at my place for the day. I might be on thin ice in July, but we shared a bed last night, and for that, I’m grateful.
She’s prepping her station when I enter my office and remove the wooden box from the shelf. The one with Clyde’s letters for his daughter. This wasn’t how I planned to give it to her, but this wasn’t how any of this was supposed to go. Whether or not the timing is right, she deserves to have it.
WHEN KELLY GETS ENGAGED
I tap the corner of the envelope on my desktop until I finally get the nerve to stand up and walk it over to her station. I breathe a sigh of relief when she’s not there, then set it neatly on the countertop where I know she’ll see it.
I had a long session this morning, but we finished up at three, and I’ve barely left my office since. I looked up several times while tattooing, hoping to see her gazing back at me, but it never happened. She never glanced in my direction. Not once did I feel her eyes on me. It has me fucking rattled.
I open my desk drawer and peek at the black velvet box, then close it again.
Open the drawer.
Close the drawer.
Open the drawer.
Fuck. . . Close the drawer.
I’ve been dying to see her wear it for so long that it’s on her finger in my dreams. But I’ll own my mistakes. I fucked up on this one. She was right about what she said yesterday; I took her choice. Her agency. Something that is precious to her. I want to make it up to her. Not to apologize, but to respect her. To ask before taking. To give her the chance to say yes.
I gave her the letter this morning, and it wasn’t there anymore while I was tattooing my client. I can’t tell if she’s just making me sweat or if I’ve truly broken something that can’t be repaired.
The calendar on the computer screen shows she’s wrapping up an appointment now. Which gives me twenty minutes before her next client comes in.
