She didn’t waste a second. “Me. Peter. The shelter. Those are good things and they’re still here.”
Shit. That was a good point.
“I’m not saying your fear isn’t valid,” she continued. “But at some point you have to let yourself have the good thing without bracing for the bad thing. Otherwise you spend your whole life flinching and you miss everything in between.”
I chewed on that for a while after we hung up. Didn’t argue because Mary was probably right and I hated when Mary was right, which was most of the time, which was annoying as hell.
That night at the estate. The library. I was in one of the leather armchairs with the highland romance on my knee, a blanket over my legs, tea going cold on the side table because I always forgot about it once I started reading. He was in the other chair with his laptop, the firelight catching the angles of his face, the sleeves of his henley pushed up to his elbows because the man was physically incapable of keeping his damn sleeves down and I was physically incapable of not staring at his forearms.
I started reading aloud with the accent, the voices, commentary between paragraphs because I couldn’t help myself. The hero in this book was being a noble self-sacrificing idiot and I had opinions.
“She’s about to forgive him,” I announced, looking up from the page. “He lied to her for three chapters and she’s about to forgivehim because he showed up in the rain and said something pretty. That’s not how forgiveness works.”
“How does forgiveness work?”
“You earn it. Over time. With actions. Not by standing in the rain looking attractive and making a speech.”
“Noted.”
“You’re taking notes?”
“Mental notes. For future reference.”
I squinted at him. He looked back with an expression that was way too innocent for a man with that jawline. “I don’t trust that face.”
“Which face?”
“The one you’re making right now. The I’m-being-charming-on-purpose face.”
“I don’t have that face.”
“You absolutely have that face. You use it on clients when you want them to agree with you. I’ve seen it in meetings.”
“Is it working?”
“Go to hell.”
He almost smiled. I went back to reading because if I kept looking at his almost-smile in the firelight I was going to climb out of this chair and into his lap and the book deserved betterthan that. Hell, I deserved better than caving every time the man almost smiled.
I read for another hour. He closed the laptop at some point and just listened, head tilted back against the chair, eyes on me. I could feel his attention warm on my skin. My voice got softer as the chapters went on, the pauses stretching, the room getting quieter until it was just my voice, the fire, his breathing.
I finished a chapter, set the book down, looked at him. He was watching me with his guard completely down, no walls, no mask, just that open expression that made my chest ache every single time. The firelight caught the stubble on his jaw, the scar on his eyebrow, the amber flecks in his eyes that I only ever saw this close.
“Stay tonight?” he asked.
He asked every time. I always said yes. It had become a ritual inside the ritual, the asking and the answering, even though my toothbrush was already in his bathroom and three of my shirts had migrated into his closet. I didn’t know why he kept asking when we both knew the answer. Maybe he liked hearing it, needed the confirmation that I was choosing this, choosing him, every time. If that was it, I’d say yes every night for the rest of my life and not get tired of it.
“Obviously.”
His mouth twitched. I caught it and my chest went warm because I knew what that twitch meant now, knew it was the closest thing to a grin he’d let himself show, and I was stupidly proud every time I earned one.
In his bedroom I stood by the bed in the dark room, the sheets still neat from the last time we’d wrecked them. Finneas came up behind me, his hands settling on my hips like they belonged there, which after weeks of this they kind of did. His mouth found the side of my neck, stubble scraping just right, warm breath making me tilt my head to give him more room. God, he knew exactly how to unravel me without even trying.
His hands slid to my waist, fingers hooking under my shirt hem, and I turned around and pushed him backward onto the bed. He went willingly, those amber eyes locked on me as I climbed on top, straddling his hips. No rush tonight. Just this slow burn we’d built up over evenings in the library, me reading aloud while he watched me like I was the book.
“Take what you want, Andrea,” he murmured, voice rough, his hands gripping my thighs, guiding but not forcing. “I want to feel every second of you.”
I leaned down and kissed him deep but unhurried, tasting him, my hands working his shirt open, pushing it aside to run my palms over his chest. His heart thumped under my fingers, fast despite his calm face. He didn’t grab or demand, just let me set the pace, his fingers tracing circles on my thighs, but that grip said he could flip us anytime he wanted.
