I rock back so we’re looking one another in the eye. “Just for the record ... I would’ve gone all the way.”
He barks out a laugh and kisses me softly again. “For the record, I would have, too.”
I want to scream at his honesty, and I want to run because heisso honest. So dreadfully, beautifully honest. My lungs squeeze, equal parts longing and ache, and I know he sees all the hidden pieces of me.
But Stone only kisses my palm and murmurs, “I’ll take the couch.”
The ache inside me deepens. I want this. I want him so badly. Every part of me screams with desire. This whole thing—us—it’s a lit fuse, just waiting to reach the bundle of TNT and explode.
But right now I want to explore the fire, the desire I feel, and I know he does, too.
Yet I can’t. All I can do is sit in this ache and want him from afar.
I watch him move away, and just when he grabs the blanket and lays it down, he turns and looks at me.
The same want and longing inside me is reflected in his eyes, and I think for a moment his resolve will crack. But he just stands, watching me.
My throat tightens, and all I can muster is, “Good night.”
“Good night,” he returns, in a voice that drips with want that I shove aside.
Wanting him and being with him are two different things—dangerous things that will lead to my undoing.
But what if I’m already undone?
Stone is magnetic—everything about him is. Watching him work a room, how he gets people to see his vision and be excited about, even how he takes care of Hercules. I’m more than attracted to him. I’ve fallen for him.
Which means I’m in deep shit.
I don’t want any of this to end. I want to wrap myself in the cocoon of this relationship and pretend—even if it’s only for a day—that it’s real.
Because it feels real to me.
I sigh and make my way to the bedroom, sitting in this feeling I wish would never end.
Chapter 32
Coco
“What do you think she’ll be like?” Cristina asks as we approach the nursing home.
“No idea, but I’m hoping she’ll at least remember the book.”
“Did you bring it?”
I lift it from my purse, displaying one teensy-weensy corner. “Right here.”
Her eyes flare with panic and she shoves the book back into the bowels of my bag. “Don’t let anyone see.”
“You’re the one who asked if I’d brought it.”
“I didn’t expect you to flash it like you’re a perv in a raincoat.”
I shoot her a dark look as we step inside. An abrasive, nose-wrinkling antiseptic smell permeates the nursing home. Lining the ceiling are bright fluorescent lights that no woman over thirty would ever approve of, and a receptionist sits behind a desk that bustles with nurses.
I tell her we’re here to visit Dot Stevens. She and a nurse exchange a quiet, if supercharged, look that makes my stomach fall.
“Are you a relative?” the receptionist asks in a way that makes me feel like I should probably lie and say yes, but if I add one more fib to my conscience, I might break in half.
