I don’t mind complicated, as long as we’re together and on the same page.
But my family is such a huge part of my life. It doesn’t feel right, withholding this life-changing thing that’s happening to me.
“What are you thinking?” she asks softly.
I look over, and she turns to face me.
“I’m thinking…” I sigh.
I told her I wasn’t going to make today about me, and Ican’t seem to stop doing just that. I turn to face her and put my hands on her waist.
“Are you so happy? You met your sister today. Can you believe it?”
She smiles wistfully. “That’s what you were thinking? Because I could’ve sworn I saw your thoughts and they weren’t that.”
“Yeah?” I grin. “You can see my thoughts now?”
“You’re not exactly subtle.”
I snort. “No. I’m not. That’s never been my thing.”
She leans over, sprawling across my chest, her hair and the slow drag of her fingertips rendering me helpless. The lake is extra moody tonight, pounding against the shore outside, and it matches the uproar in my head.
I trace lazy circles on her shoulder, trying not to think too hard about how badly I’m going to miss this when I get on a plane again. My brain keeps wanting to tilt toward the same dark corner:You’re more invested in this. You’re the one who’s going to fall apart.
I’ve never done these mental gymnastics. I’m Dylan fucking Whitman, no self-confidence issues, no problem finding a willing woman, no pretending I’m calm when I’m fucking not. But I’ve never felt like this about anyone. Ever.
She lifts her head. Her hair slides over my chest, ticklish, distracting. “I don’t want to lose you, Dylan. I—do you know how much I care about you?”
When I just stare at her, she keeps going.
“Like…a lot. Annoyingly a lot. Like, it’s starting to feel like a medical condition.”
I blink. “A medical condition?”
“Yeah.” She nods solemnly, even though her mouth is fighting a smile. “Symptoms include stomach butterflies,excessive smiling, nonstop naughty thoughts, and—there’s a medical term for it.”
“Yeah?” My hand slides down to her ass, and I run it over her silky skin.
She taps my chest with one finger. “I have chronic Dylan-itis.”
God. This woman.
Something warm cracks open in my rib cage. The downward spiral my brain was constructing just collapses. Like she kicked the whole structure down with that voice and those damn lips.
“Well,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant even though my heart is sprinting, “I care about you too.”
“I know,” she says smugly. “You get this soft puppy look sometimes. It’s embarrassing for both of us.”
I laugh because she’s not wrong, and she laughs with me. Then she shifts higher on my chest until her face is right over mine, close enough that her breath mingles with mine. Close enough that I can’t think of a single reason to doubt her.
“It scares me how much I care,” she whispers, touching my jaw. Her thumb strokes the corner of my mouth, slow. “But I do. So, so much.”
Heat punches through me so sharp I have to breathe around it.
“So…” she continues softly. “If you’re over there spiraling? Don’t. You’re not doing this alone.”
I swallow. My voice is not exactly steady when I say, “That’s good. Because my brain was about two minutes away from writing a whole tragic saga.”
