“Mm,” she agreed. “And tiramisu.”
“Tiramisu it is.” His smile came through the phone. The same smile he’d delivered when he showed up with groceries and flowers.
In the kitchen now, he went to work on dinner while she sat at the island watching him. He cocked his head, those pale blue eyes puncturing the dark cloud around her. “What’s going on, Lizzy?”
“Sorry?”
“You’re sad.”
She wasn’t sad. Her life was sad?—it was sad he didn’t know her real name. “Because dinner isn’t ready yet.” She didn’t want her mood to ruin this, the one bright spot in her life, so she moved around the island to get the dishes.
Stone reached back and caught her fingers with his. Laced them. Lifted her hand to his lips and kissed them.
Breath stolen, she peered up him. A towel over his shoulder, he had no idea how gorgeous he looked.
“Talk to me, beautiful.”
Her heart pittered. Then pattered. “Why haven’t you kissed me?”
He considered her for a long moment, little space between them, his hand slipping to her waist.
“It’s just a kiss,” she said, a line she’d fed herself for the last five years.
“No,” he said huskily, his gaze on her mouth. He drew his thumb gently over her lower lip. “It’s not just a kiss. It means a lot more. It’s promise, a beginning.”
Her heart was about to thrash its way between her ribs. She caught his arm and held on, the room canting in a dizzying concoction of attraction.
“If I begin something … I finish it.”
“And you don’t want to do that,” she supplied, trying not to show how much that hurt. “Not with me.”
He shifted, his expression heavy with intent, with attraction. “Wrong again.” He smirked in a way that melted her knees. “I very much want to begin and end it.” He angled closer, those blue eyes taking her in. His breath whispered over her mouth seconds before his warm lips teased hers. “But I want to do it right. Perfection shouldn’t be rushed.”
. . . . .
Bexar-Wolfe Lodge, Northern Virginia
He had been so perfect. All those evenings of laughing, cooking, talking. Nothing sensual or inappropriate.
At first.
After the scandal went live, Brighton focused on work, clients. Anything to numb herself to what she’d done, violating his trust. Seeing his face, watching him on the news as he was ushered into a waiting SUV to leave the governor’s mansion for the last time, his head down in shame.
A choked sob rose in her throat. And here, in the lodge, there was no fear of Ladomer or his men hearing and condemning her “emotional outbursts,” so she let the tears come. Praying to a God she’d shelved that fateful night with Leon that had changed everything. It was too much to hope for Stone’s forgiveness, but maybe … maybe God could help him not hate her.
She woke up sometime later to find the sun no longer glaring at her, and she rolled onto her back. Head aching, eyes puffy from crying, she cringed at the grumble of her stomach. Her first thought was to head out and run to the local bagel shop, but reality gave her habit a swift kick into reality. There was no bagel shop here. Only the four walls of this hotel room. Not even a coffee shop. Groan. That could possibly be the cruelest thing here.
No. No, that was a lie. Seeing Stone and experiencing his wrath???—those were the cruelest.
Brighton slipped off the bed, ordered a tray of food???—which was promised to arrive within a half hour???—and decided to shower. She dug through the clothes from Brooke, then got cleaned up. Hair wrapped in a towel, she emerged, determined to somehow find better shampoo that did not leave her hair feeling like cardboard.
A knock came at the door with the pronouncement of “Room Service.”
Still expecting Ladomer or his men to find her, Brighton checked the peep hole before opening the door.
A short, burly Latino with a goatee grinned at her. “Hola, bella dama!” Happy and gregarious, he nodded. “I see now why he yell. I also would yell!”
Brighton blinked, then came the flush of embarrassment. She was used to having men flirt with her, but it was somehow unexpected here??—after all, the desk clerk clearly sided with his boss. Job security, she guessed.
