“Thank you for tonight. For Barcelona the restaurant. For trusting me with”—I gesture around—“all of this.”
I step down from the stairs, my knees still a little weak, and move toward the door.
He catches my hand. “Wait.”
I stop. Don’t turn around. Can’t turn around.
Because if I look at him, I’m going to kiss him.
And that’s not in the contract.
That’s real.
And real is terrifying.
“Thank you,” he says quietly. “For coming. For staying. For praying. For being here when I—” His voice catches. “When I needed someone.”
“Anytime,” I whisper.
The horn honks again.
“I have to go.”
“I know.”
I pull my hand free. Head for the door and run down the front steps to Jessa’s waiting car.
“Drive,” I say the second I’m in the passenger seat.
“Are you okay?”
“Drive first. Questions later.”
She pulls away from the curb. I watch Brody’s house disappear in the side mirror.
We drive in silence for three blocks.
I press my hands to my face, my palm cold against my super-heated skin.
Jessa glances over, does a double-take. “Oh no…”
“Don’t.”
“Do you need me to go over the contract details with you again?”
“Probably.”
“Section Four: No romantic involvement outside of public appearances. Section Seven: Relationship terminates after final wedding event. Absolutely one hundred percent no falling for him allowed.”
“It might be too late,” I whisper.
Ten
Brody
My back is killing me.
Not the good kind of hurt—the post-game, worked-hard, earned-it kind. The bad kind. The “sleeping on a couch designed for looks not comfort for three straight nights” kind.
