There is no angle. It makes no sense.
I’m honestly confused. Not because he dislikes me—I don’t expect everyone to like me—but because he looked shaken even before he saw me. Hunted. That bothers me more than all the scowls and snarls he gave me.
I wanted to pull him close. Comfort him, soothe him, tell him it’s alright. Yet I knew it wasn’t my place. Not my right.
So instead of making sure he’s okay, I made a song and dance about my ability to function—followed by an utter, spectacular failure to function.
I groan. What is this urge? I want to take care of him so badly that it almost feels like a physical ache.
I want to marry him.
I can imagine it easily: there’s me standing at an altar, watching him walk toward me, his beautiful, sharp face lit with happiness. I touch my mouth. I want to feel his lips on mine, parting with desire when we kiss as husbands.
Should the intensity of my feelings alarm me?
Last night I seriously considered remodeling my kitchen so he could reach the high shelves more easily if he ever came over. That’s maybe… slightly alarming?
I know most people start with a coffee date, not a cupboard contractor.
For the first time in my life, I want more.
Did Antonio yank that door open, or was it already ajar and waiting for him? It doesn’t matter. What matters is that I have found someone I want to learn slowly and thoroughly. I want to know what makes him nervous and angry and scared so that I can make him feel safe. I want to kiss him until the noise around him goes quiet. I want to kiss away his every shield.
Make him realize he wouldn’t need them with me.
I want to cherish and spoil him, come home to him—be his home.
I want to love him. It’s as simple as that.
I would be so goddamn good to him.
I blink, coming to my senses.
So far the object of my desires has hissed at me like a furious woodland creature because I tipped him too much. We are a long way from I do, but one can dream.
When I hear Earl and Ann-Sabrina in a heated discussion near the square, I sigh and head toward them.
Ann-Sabrina tolerates Earl, but her patience has limits.
She usually runs out in seconds.
“In Finland, the most sacred mythical creature is the bear,” Earl explains.
“Earl,” Ann-Sabrina snaps. “I give zero fucks about Finnish bears.”
Earl spots me and scuttles closer.
“Evening,” I say.
Ann-Sabrina sighs.
“A khaki-wearing potato wheezed at me.”
“Oh no,” I say gravely. “Another date gone wrong?”
“Fitzgerald Smith,” she snarls. “He lied in his profile. He looked nothing like Rhysand.”
“Maija says—” Earl starts, but a look from Ann-Sabrina silences him.
