“Oh, I will.” Then he smirks and glances over his shoulder. “Hey, your guy’s up.”
From my peripheral, Jack steps out of the bedroom. Instantly, my heartbeat soars, excited by his sheer presence. His eyes land on me in the busy kitchen.
Quickly, I make him a plate and weave around people to bring it to him. The room quiets. Chatter ceases, forks stop stabbing, and people freeze.
Then, a few men whistle and holler.
“Better eat up after last night, lover boy!”
Oh my gosh...
They heard us.
Jack tries not to smile too smug.
But I am beet red.
I hand him the plate, and do a quick scan of the room of mischievous smiles. This is the first time in my life that everyone in a room knows I had sex.
Jack brings me close, pressing my nervous body flush with his. He kisses the top of my head and murmurs, “Don’t panic, church girl. Hell won’t open up and swallow you whole.”
I exhale a long breath. Leave it to him to sense exactly what I’m feeling.
And the world doesn’t end. I’m not ostracized. People just go back to eating and talking. My eternal damnation isn’t even a topic for breakfast conversation.
My fingers dig into his sides, afraid if I let go, something bad will happen.
“Hey,” he says.
My neck bends back, and I hold my breath, unsure what version of Jack I’m facing.
“Hi. Good morning,” I whisper back, bashful.
He smirks, then plants a sweet kiss on my lips that makes my face flush hot.
“Hope you like breakfast,” I say, but I am still uneasy.
He sits at a table, and practically drags me onto his lap. He hooks an arm around my hips, locking me firmly in place.
Doesn’t seem regretful. He wants me near. That’s promising.
I comb his hair with my fingertips as he eats quietly. It’s obvious he’s lost in thought, too.
When he finishes eating, he leans back and says, “That was good. Thanks,” but then, he rests his forehead on my arm and mumbles, “Morgan, we fucked up so bad.”
A surge of worry jolts my heart.
“What do you mean?”
Both arms pull me closer, like he can’t bear to let me go. His voice lowers, and he hesitates, like he is unsure if he should say it, but he does:
“I want more.”
“You do?” I sit straighter, astonished. “That’s great!”
“You’re engaged.”
Two words that hit hard. My stomach lurches.
