She falls apart, crying out my name, and the feeling of her clenching pulls me over with her. I bury my face in her neck as I slam deep and pump into her. We’re shaking, gasping, and holding on to each other.
“That was”—she shakes her head—“mind-blowing.”
“One way to put it.”
We come down from our high and clean ourselves. Addison pulls me back to bed with her, and I pull her against my chest. As the candles burn low, she snuggles in close.
“Worth being banned from Montclaire?” I ask, knowing because Davis filled me in.
She laughs against my chest. “Definitely. Thank you for choosing me.”
“I’d do it again.” I run my fingers through her hair. “Growing up, I was told my marriage would be a transaction. Love wasn’t part of the deal.”
“And now?”
“Now I understand what my grandmother tried to tell me.” I tilt her chin up.
“Which was?”
I hold her gaze. “‘Real love isn’t always about what you gain. Sometimes, it’s about what you’re willing to lose.’ But losing you was never an option. I can’t hide us. I don’t want to.”
“When you say things like that …” she whispers.
“It’s the truth,” I say, kissing her forehead.
Within minutes, her breathing evens out, and she falls asleep against me. The candles burn down. The city hums outside. My body finally surrenders, and I close my eyes, holding on to the one thing I refused to give up.
35
LOUIS
Sunlight streams through the gaps in the blinds and splashes across the bed in golden stripes. Addison is still asleep. Her hair is fanned across the pillow, and one hand is tucked under her cheek. She looks at peace, and she’s real.
Addison Cross ismine.
I could watch her all morning, but my stomach has other plans. It growls loud enough that I think she hears it. Her brow furrows before she relaxes and drifts back off. I press a kiss to her bare shoulder and slide out of bed, grabbing my boxer briefs from the floor and pulling them on. The candles from last night have burned down to nubs on the windowsill.
My feet are cold against the hardwood as I move toward the living room, where my duffel is, and grab my toiletry bag. The city noise is a hum in the background as I brush my teeth. I make my way to the kitchen and find the coffee cup she drank out of yesterday is still in the sink.
Her fridge doesn’t have much in it, but I can work with eggs, butter, and milk. There’s a container of takeout sitting next to a bottle of ketchup. The pantry is stocked with flour, sugar, baking powder, vanilla extract, and a bag of chocolate chips that’s been opened and clipped shut. Pancakes it is.
I find a mixing bowl in the cabinet above the stove and a whisk in the drawer beside it. Measuring cups are shoved in the back, behind astack of mismatched plates. Everything in her cabinets is jammed wherever they fit, but it’s charming, and I can tell she actually uses her kitchen.
Cooking is one of the few things that’s entirely mine. Now I’m in Addison’s kitchen, whisking batter while the morning light streams through her windows. It feels like home.
In a separate pan, I crack eggs and let them sizzle in butter while I pour circles of batter onto a griddle I found hanging on a hook by the stove. The first pancake is always a throwaway. There was too much butter, and the heat was uneven, so I scrape it into the trash and start again. The second one spreads into a perfect circle, and I watch the bubbles form on the surface, waiting for the right moment to flip it.
The comforter shuffles in the bedroom, and a minute later, I hear footsteps behind me.
“Are you cooking?” she asks, her voice soft from sleep. Her arms wrap around my waist, and she kisses my back.
I spin around and capture her lips. “Hope you like pancakes.”
“I had mix?” she asks, confused.
Addison is wearing my T-shirt, and the hem hits mid-thigh. Her hair is a mess on top of her head. Her eyes are still half-closed, and there’s a pillow crease on her cheek.
“No,” I tell her. “But you had the ingredients to make it.”
