“Not as much as you spoil me,” she murmurs over my lips. She pushes me away a couple of minutes later. “Eat before it goes cold.”
After breakfast, I drag her upstairs, stopping outside the guest bedroom before turning around to face her. “So, I did a thing.” I rub the back of my neck, a sudden attack of nerves twisting my stomach into knots. “Please don’t see this as pressure,” I say even though it is totally part of my devious plan to get her to move in with me. “I wanted to give you this. For your art.” I turn the handle on the door, opening it and stepping aside to let her enter.
She walks into the room as if in a daze, her head spinning left and right as she struggles to take it all in.
“Mom helped me,” I explain. “She came here a few days while I was taking exams and oversaw the remodel.” Presley is always drawing or doing something crafty, and the idea came to me one night last week when I watched her make a new pressed-flower picture in her tiny kitchen. She deserves to have her own space where she can draw, paint, or create whatever art she wants, so I’ve transformed the unused guest room into an art studio for her.
We replaced the smaller window at the back with two much larger windows, opening up the room so it’s brighter and Presley has a gorgeous view of the beautiful city in the distance. A long counter with a deep sink runs the length of the room on the other side with various shelves overhead and cupboards underneath. On the other side is a drafting table and chair, but other than that, the room is largely empty. The walls are completely bare so she can create a mural, hang her artwork, or tack things to it.
Mom knows a guy who makes handcrafted easels, so I bought a few in different sizes along with canvases, sketch pads, paints, pencils, and a whole heap of other things the girl in the art store suggested. I even purchased a tattoo kit, so she can practice, with a machine, bottles of ink, cups, assorted tips and needles, and raw leather to ink on. I have a feeling, with a space to call her own, Presley will discover other arty things she likes.
“I didn’t want to add too much because it’s your space and you can decorate it however you want, so if you need anything added, just let me know and I can get the workmen to come back,” I say, shoving my hands in my jeans pockets.
“Kent.” She spins around on her heels, staring at me through glassy eyes. “You did all this for me?”
I nod because who the fuck else would I do it for?
“Oh my God.” Her lower lip wobbles as she races toward me, flinging herself into my arms. “I don’t know what to say.” She’s full-on crying now, and I’m starting to worry.
“Babe,” I croak out over the lump in my throat. “These are happy tears, right?”
“Yes.” She laughs, brushing at the dampness on her cheeks. “I’m so happy right now my heart feels like it could burst.” She kisses me hard on the lips. “How did I get so lucky to meet you?” She peppers my face with kisses. “How are you so perfect for me?”
“Stop stealing all my lines,” I quip, unused to such blatant displays of emotion.
She straightens up, peering adoringly at my face, and my heart might as well just leap out of my chest and into her hand because this woman owns me. Body, heart, and soul. The realization I love her almost knocks me off my feet.How the fuck did this happen, and why aren’t I more freaked out?
“Kent.” She holds my face, bringing me back into the moment. “Thank you. This is incredible. I don’t know what more to say.”
“Say you’ll be here when I get home.”
“I’ll be here. Wild horses couldn’t drag me away.”
I wrap my arms around her, holding her tight, wanting to bottle this feeling, so I can always feel it, because Presley makes me feel whole in a way I have never felt in my life, and I never want to lose her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Kent
Another couple of weeks pass, and Presley still won’t agree to move in permanently even though she is here at least half the week.
I’ve started my internship, and it’s going well so far. There are six other summer interns, and four of them are okay. The exceptions are Tracy—because she seems determined to dig her claws into me even though I’ve told her repeatedly I have a serious girlfriend—and Rory, who hates my guts purely because of my last name.
Whatever.
I’m keeping out of intern drama, focusing on the work because I want to make an impression, and doing my best to ignore all distractions.
“Babe,” I call out, entering our bedroom. “Are you ready yet? We need to leave, or we’ll be late.” I watch in amusement as Presley struggles to get into her skinny ripped jeans, grimacing as she slowly tugs the denim up her long legs, the action looking almost painful.
“We have to stop eating out,” she huffs when she finally gets them on. “Or I won’t fit into any of my clothes.”
I stride toward her, pulling her into my arms, pinning her with a wolfish grin. “You’re perfect, and any extra calories you consume we more than work off in the bedroom or the gym.”
I can’t keep my hands off my woman, and the feeling seems mutual. Having sex on tap is definitely an added benefit of having a steady girlfriend, but there are so many other things I love about being in a committed relationship—like how those dark parts within me have retreated, pushed down by the happiness that now exudes from my every pore. Or how amazing it is to justexistwith my girlfriend. You can’t put a price on having someone to call when there are highs and lows. When something good happens, Presley is the first person I want to tell. Similarly, she’s the only one I want to lean on when things are shitty and I’m having a bad day.
Presley has altered my world in immeasurable, indefinable ways, and we’ve only just begun.
“I have only been to the gym twice this week,” she grumbles, gripping my waist. “It’s not cutting it.”
