She grows silent and brings her hand to draw along my chest as I recover my breath and feel my pulse slowing down. “Is it wrong of me that I actually enjoy things like being rough and adventurous, considering my past.”
My eyes strike to the side to meet hers. I know what she means, and it has nothing to do with me. “Absolutely not, and you should get that idea completely out of your head then throw it into the ocean, or even better, burn it away, if we could do that with thoughts.”
I feel too much for Harlow, and I encourage her to rest her head against my chest. I’m not letting her dive into a bad thought on my watch or in general.
“I thought so, just needed to hear it I guess,” she whispers.
“Harlow, you’re past a lot. Don’t look back, you don’t need to.”
“Because of you, I’m beginning to believe that.”
I kiss the top of her head before tangling my fingers in her hair. “I like hearing that.” I tighten my hold on her.
“I hate that there is a blank slate when I look to the future,” she mentions.
“Mmm, you can also attempt to help the future you want along by having a plan. Even if nothing goes as planned. We both know that. I intended to have a hockey career, living in a city, and here I am in a small town, writing books, with a beautiful woman in my bed.”
“Very true. You do have a beautiful woman in your bed.” There is humor in her voice. “But yeah, we can give indications to what we want in the future.”
“Is that what we’re doing?”
“No clue.”
I blow out a breath. “I need to take you slowly now. I won’t let our night be dictated by a wild session. That’s what I’m planning for our future right now.”
“I think that’s exactly what we need. Your eyes never leaving mine makes life feel promising.”
Fuck me, I wish that were true. I hope it will be, at least.
Is it so wrong that I want her to take a jump off a cliff with me, because a long-term relationship between us does feel promising?
My only answer is to roll us until she’s beneath me, with her eyes glimmering a connection that we can’t seem to shake away.
15
STONE
Harlow looks good in my button-down shirt, with nothing else on except her panties underneath. My shirt drowns her slightly, but it doesn’t matter, as her knees are pulled up where she’s leaning back against my sofa. She’s got my laptop, with her facial expressions changing occasionally. She’s reading the early copy of my book that my editor sent over a few days ago.
We’ve taken it easy today. Grabbing breakfast at Jolly Joe’s, hitting up the pool and jacuzzi at the Dizzy Duck, followed by stopping at the store for some groceries so we can just stay home for dinner and drink wine with the fireplace on.
I don’t particularly care if she wants to read all 80,000 words in one sitting because I could watch her all day. Her eyes strike up from the pages, noticing I’m mesmerized by her.
“I’m not a museum exhibit. Stop watching me.” Her toes dig into my side, attempting to create distance.
“Sorry. I’m trying to come up with a plan to unbutton that shirt with just my teeth.”
She shakes her head, entertained, and ignores me as she snaps the laptop closed and sets it on the coffee table. “I’m not into sports fiction, but this is good. At first, it seems dramatic, but then it feels like character development.”
Ah, she must be referring to the fact that my hockey player has a conscience and leaves his immoral coach and returns to vineyard belonging to his father, a veteran, when he loses faith in the sport.
I shrug my shoulders. “It’s not too soft, considering this caters to the male demographic? I mean, the ending.” My main character, despite receiving major sports offers, decides to live a quiet life on his dad’s vineyard to help, since his family sacrificed so much.
“Not at all,” she says with sincerity, then a smirk curves up her lips. “All you need to do is add the ending where he’s in town picking up supplies and catches the eye of the bakery owner, then women will flock to your book.”
I shake my head, appreciative of her lightness. “It’s not my best.”
“Maybe you need a break from writing for a while. Writer’s block is a real thing. Plus, straightforward fiction doesn’t always have the same structure as romance.”
