“Is that how it was with Philippe?”
Old memories stirred, not all of them pleasant. “It was a long time ago,” I said. “I’m focused on right now.” I laced my fingers with Caleb’s and brought our joined hands to the center of my chest, resting them over my heart. “On you and me.”
He drew a deep breath. “Is that what you want? For there to be a you and me?”
I nodded. “Yes, I do. I want that, Caleb. And it’s not just the sex, although that part of it is mind-blowing, to say the least.” I squeezed his hand. “Running with you today was incredible. Spending time with you last night was just as amazing. I think it only gets better from here. I want to see what tomorrow looks like, and the day after that and the day after that. I want everything with you. We don’t have to put labels on anything right now. But I’m all in, wolf and man.”
He gazed at me, astonishment in his eyes. “How…?” He gave his head a little shake. “How could you want all of that with me?”
The astonishment was my undoing. I wrapped my arms around him, letting my lips coast over his damp hair that smelled of forest and my shampoo. “Oh, sweetheart,” I murmured, “how could I not?”
His heart thudded against mine, and I could almost hear the gears spinning in his head as he examined my words from every angle, hunting for tricks or hidden traps that might spring open and hurt him. I waited him out, stroking his back and resisting the urge to throw more words at him. After a long moment, he relaxed against me. When it came, his reply was more breath than sound. But it was loud as it traveled through our bond.
“I want all of that with you, too.”
Chapter
Fourteen
CALEB
The kitchen in Jesse’s townhouse was even more impressive than the one in Hale Valley. He knew how to use it, too. It was dinnertime, and he’d spent the past half hour chopping, dicing, and presiding over a trio of bubbling pots on the big, stainless steel stove that looked more complicated than the control panel of a 747. When I offered to help, he pointed a wooden spoon toward the living room.
“Sit. You completed your first shift today. You need food and rest.”
I couldn’t help wondering if his concern was a polite way of banishing my microwave-mac-and-cheese ass from the kitchen. But he seemed sincere—and I was genuinely useless when it came to cooking—so I did what I was told and plunked down on one of the plush sofas while he worked.
And if I entertained a few thoughts of him using that wooden spoon on my ass, well, more proof Sunday School had been wasted on me.
Like a lot of other spaces in Jesse’s home, the coffee table was piled with books. Leaning forward, I pulled the nearest stack toward me and grabbed the one on top.
Ten Hours in the Battle of Verdun. The author was Barnaby Jansen. I thumbed through the pages, which were full of black-and-white photos and lengthy paragraphs detailing weapon types and troop movements. The next few books in the stack were written by the same person, who had “New York Times Bestselling Author” above his name. Page after page, photos of uniformed young men with hollow eyes stared out from the past. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t picture Jesse alongside them. My brain wouldn’t let me connect the ball cap-wearing frat guy with a sinner’s touch to one of the bedraggled soldiers in Jesse’s books.
But Ihadto make that connection…didn’t I? Just because I struggled to wrap my head around Jesse’s past didn’t mean it wasn’t real. I’d lived a fraction of the time he had, and my childhood and adolescence had shaped me in ways I’d be dealing with for a long time. If Jesse and I had any kind of future together, I needed to know everything about him, including the bad parts. Especially the bad parts.
“Food’s ready.” When I looked up, Jesse stood in the wide opening that connected the living room to the kitchen. He held a dish towel, and his gaze fell on the books I’d spread over the coffee table.
“Sorry,” I said. Snapping shut the book, I stood and began fixing the mess I’d made.
“It’s all right.” He slung the towel over his shoulder as he moved into the living room. “You’re welcome to read anything that catches your interest.”
I straightened the last book, then gestured to the stack. “Does this Jansen guy get it right? The war, I mean.”
An odd light danced in Jesse’s eyes. “I think most people would say he’s pretty accurate. I can introduce you if you’d like.”
“You’ve met him?”
“Lots of times.” Jesse paused. “So have you.”
It took me a second. “You’re Barnaby Jansen.”
“Jansen was my mother’s maiden name.”
“And Barnaby?”
He shrugged, looking a little sheepish. “It sounded important.”
“Well, I think it worked.” I gestured toTen Hours in the Battle of Verdun. “You made theNew York Times.” The knowledge sank into my skin, threatening to make my head spin. All the stacks of books I’d spotted here and at his place in Hale Valley. The notes sticking out from between the pages. He didn’t just collect books. Hewrotethem. Meanwhile, I had a hard time finishing a ten-page midterm paper.
