“Mmhmm.” I drag the brush over his pinky. “You’re all hard edges and soft hearts. I like the contrast.”
He’s quiet for a second. Then he says, “You shouldn’t be saying shit like that.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m already yours more than I should be.”
My hand freezes.
Our eyes lock. Because again, with everything we do, we never mention the elephant in the room, that this is wrong and he is not mine.
But instead of retreating, I blow gently on his last nail, cap the bottle, and whisper, “Too late.”
He moves then. Fast. One arm around my waist, the other catching the back of my neck as he pulls me flush against him.
“Peach,” he says, voice a wrecked whisper, “you have no fucking idea what you’re doing to me.”
“Maybe I do,” I whisper back.
His forehead presses to mine. “Then stop.”
“I wish I could.” That right there is the absolute truth. I would stop if I knew how, if I were brave enough to even want to know.
Afew hours later, I’m in my room, dressed, made-up, and staring at myself in the mirror. My reflection stares back, uncertain, excited, nervous, guilty. I smooth down my dress for the tenth time, my hands trembling. What am I doing?
This isn’t just meeting someone’s family. I’m about to meet my sister’s fiancé’s mother. And the kicker is that Abigail probably hasn’t even met the woman before.
It’s wrong. Twisted, even. And yet… here I am, stepping willingly deeper into the chaos.
I take a deep breath and head downstairs. When I reach the bottom, Calvin is waiting, leaning casually against the wall like this is all perfectly normal. His eyes sweep over me, a slow, appreciative glance that makes my stomach flutter despite everything.
“You look incredible,” he says, taking hold of my hand and spinning me around.
“You like it? I made it myself.”
The dress is soft pink with delicate rose prints scattered across it, the fabric flowing gently around my legs every time I move. The halter neckline dips just enough to feel feminine without trying too hard, and the fitted waist gives way to a full, romantic skirt that sways like it has a life of its own. It’s the kind of dress that makes me feel… pretty.
His eyes soften as he looks at me. “You made this?” He reaches out, brushing his fingers along the fabric. “It’s beautiful. You’re beautiful.”
Heat rises to my cheeks. “Thank you,” I say quietly, suddenly aware of how fast my heart’s beating.
As soon as we settle into the car, the reminder of the flogging I received a few hours ago makes itself known. I shift slightly, wincing, and that’s when I notice the two bouquets on the seat. Is one of those for me? What do they mean? I’ve come to look forward to the flowers he gives me, though I work hard not to show how much they affect me.
“Don’t even act like you’re not dying to know which one’s yours,” Calvin teases.
I quickly look away, hoping he doesn’t catch the truth in my eyes. I shrug, feigning nonchalance. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He laughs, and the sound is warm, infectious. I hate how beautiful it is, how much I want to hear that sound again.
“You’re adorable,” he says, picking up the sunflowers and handing them to me. “These are yours. They mean adoration and loyalty.”
The words nearly undo me.Adoration and loyalty.Is that what he’s saying? That he’s loyal to me? The thought is absurd, laughable, even. He’s engaged to my sister. And yet, hearing it from him, I want to believe it. I want to believehim.
The sunflowers are bright, almost too bright, like theydon’t belong in something this wrong. Still, I manage a small smile, forcing my voice to stay steady. “I love them,” I whisper, brushing my fingertips along the soft petals. “Thank you.”
My eyes flick to the bouquet still in his lap. “What about those?” I ask, nodding toward the pink carnations.
He glances at them. “Gratitude and a mother’s love,” he explains, then looks at me with that same easy smile. “For my mom.”
