“Who says?”
“Isay! Science says! Interactions with people hold weight, Fawn. I thought you knew this. You can’t just touch or kiss or—or—orthat other stuffand walk away from it. Chemicals release. Your brainliterallychanges.”
“Uh-huh. Go change it.”
My arms shake around Macaroon. “N-no. I’m stronger than that.”
“Then shut it all down.”
I…might actually not be stronger than that, then.
She’s right.
She’sright. If I’m holding onknowingit’s not good, I’m holding on for superficial things. And if I’m not going to indulge in those superficial things, then… I need to stop holding on.
My palm burns, reminding me how stable and firm Damion felt beneath it just this afternoon.
I don’t want cheap feelings.
I don’t.
For the sake of the future I want, with a husband I’m committed to and have always been committed to, I…need to be strong.
?
Skin electrified, I look weakly up at Damion, who’s standing topless at his bedroom door. The tattoos on his arms twine and twist and cover his chest, too. Following the leaves and fruits that start around his heart, I swallow.
“Pig,” he murmurs, staring at Macaroon in my arms.
I take a deep breath, then I say, “Sex alters brain chemistry.”
Damion tenses, and swears.
“It’s just a fact.”
He cups his hand to his mouth. “O…kay.”
“Do you ever find yourself at the end of a long road of very intentional, very careful, very bad decisions?” I step forward, and he steps back, providing me entry to his bedroom.
I’ve been in here before, of course. I’ve cleaned it a bunch of times. In the before days, anyway, when he was just renting. Or immediately after he had just rented, actually. He always kept this place locked while he was here. When I started working just for him, he told me he’d take care of his own bedroom, so thelocked while he’s heresort of thing maintained.
I’ve never seen the sterile, rent-ready space filled with personal items like this before. Magazines about exercise. Amare catalogs. A metal pyramid paperweight. A small collection of miniature globes, including a cube one, filled with sea monster depictions in the oceans.
Tracing a sea serpent with my fingernail, I turn toward the silent man who did not answer my question about bad decisions and find him at the dresser in his walk-in closet, rifling through a drawer.
Odd.
Peculiar.
He locates a shirt and slips it on, covering his tattoos. All of them. It’s long-sleeve.
“Damion?” I ask.
Every defined muscle pressing against the thin material constricts. Raw and rough as rock against rock, he says, “Yes…precious?”
My fool heart flutters. “Were you very good at chemistry?”
A swear hisses from him, and though he faces me, he does not leave the closet. “I… Yes. I was.”
