“Why?” he asked.
The question wasn’t mocking, it was raw.
I lifted my chin and met his gaze head-on.
“Because I feel drawn to you,” I said simply. “Like gravity. Like pressure in my bones. I don’t have a better explanation than that. I just know that when I close my eyes at night and my brain tries to pull up something that doesn’t hurt, it pulls up you that day at the hardware and the way your hand felt in mine while I was bandaging it.”
His mouth parted, just a little, but no sound came out.
I took a breath I wasn’t sure I’d get through.
“And if I’m going to walk into this house and let people like Henry and the mysterious Mr. Stonewood decide my future,” I finished, “I want one thing that is mine to carry with me into the future. Something I choose. Something that isn’t a transaction or a performance. Just… you and me, for five blessed seconds, before I sign away the rest of my life.”
We stared at each other.
The air felt thick and electric.
Finally, he spoke, barely above a whisper.
“My scars don’t bother you?”
The question speared straight through my chest.
“Why would they?” I asked, honestly baffled. “They make you who you are. They prove you survived something that should’ve taken you out. And you’re still the most devastatingly handsome man I’ve ever seen, scars or not.”
Something shattered behind his eyes.
He took a step closer, so close I could see the tiny variations in the scar’s texture, the way one side of his mouth tugged when he swallowed.
“Chrissy,” he said, and my name in his mouth sounded like a warning and a prayer at the same time. “You can’t tell anyone this happened. If they find out, Henry will eliminate you in a heartbeat. And Mr. Stonewood…”
He stopped. Whatever he’d been about to say didn’t feel like it had a happy ending.
“I understand,” I whispered. “I won’t say a word to anyone, I promise.”
His gaze searched mine one last time, like he was looking for any hint of a lie.
Apparently, he didn’t find one because he moved.
One second, I was standing there with my hand on his arm. The next, my back was against the wall beside the door as he nudged it closed, the cool paneling pressing into my shoulder blades and his body a furnace in front of me. He didn’t crowd me, didn’t pin me, but he was close enough that the scent of him wrapped around me. He smelled like soap, cold air, and something woody, like sandalwood.
He braced one hand beside my head, the other hovering near my hip but not quite touching me.
“You sure?” he asked, voice rough. “This is what you want?”
“Yes,” I breathed.
With the hand that had been on the wall beside my head, he cupped my cheek, fingertips brushing from jaw to temple with feather-light care before his palm settled against my cheek. He leaned forward but paused, like he was giving me one last chance to flinch.
I didn’t. I leaned into it.
His eyes went molten, and then his mouth was on mine.
The kiss wasn’t gentle, but it wasn’t harsh, either.
It was… hungry. Like he’d been holding himself back for years and finally let the leash slip. His lips were warm and firm, tasting like winter air and something I couldn’t name, but already knew I’d never forget. My hands flew up, fingers tangling in his dark, messy black hair, tugging him closer on instinct.
He made a low sound in his chest that went straight to my core.
