“By manifesting what you actually want instead of settling for what you think you deserve.”
Noia stares out at the water, her reflection ghostlike in the glass.
“Eric never would have brought me somewhere like this,” she says quietly. “He would’ve made reservations at some trendy restaurant where we’d sit across from each other making small talk about what happened to him at work while he checked his phone every five minutes.” The laugh she huffs out sounds bitter. “I used to think real-life romance was about being with someone reliable.”
“What about now?”
Her blue eyes are luminous when she turns to look at me. “Now I’m sitting in a truck that shouldn’t exist with a man who shouldn’t either, and I’ve never felt more alive.”
She presses her fingers to her lips. The admission seems to surprise her as much as it does me.
“Noia—”
“We should go back,” she says quickly, reaching for herseatbelt. “I really do need to write tonight and my feet are getting cold.”
With a sigh, I turn the key and the engine roars to life. Leaning over, I turn on the heat and adjust it so it blows onto her bare feet.
“Thank you,” she says with a sigh.
“Anything for you, kitten.”
I hear her take a breath in as she shifts to rest her elbow next to the window. Resting her head in her hand, she keeps her gaze focused outside.
Shifting into reverse, I stretch my arm across the seat behind her as I back up, my fingers grazing the soft curls at the nape of her neck. She shivers under my touch, and I glance down to see her nipples are hard beneath her sweater.
The smell of vanilla and mineral water brushes softly under my nose, making my cock twitch and my jeans feel tight.
Despite the charge in the air, we both keep silent on the drive back. My nerves are on edge, like the calm before a storm.
When we pull into her driveway, I kill the engine.
The moonlight spills through the windshield, painting her skin in silver and shadow. “So you want me to write about today and see where it goes from there?”
“Yes.”
“What if...” she starts, then stops, swallowing hard.
I wait silently, giving her a chance to gather her thoughts.
“What if I write something, and it changes you? Makes you different?”
I reach across the center console and take her hand. Her skin is soft against my calloused palm. “I’m not worried.”
“You’re not?”
“No. I trust you,” I say simply. “I trust that whatever you write will be what needs to happen.”
She stares down at our joined hands as my thumb tracesabsentminded circles on her wrist. “I don’t know if I trust myself. Not anymore.”
“Then I guess you’ll just have to let my trust be enough.”
Her eyes flick up to meet mine and I feel something shift—a kind of understanding, an acceptance—between us. She nods once, then slips her hand from mine and opens the door.
I follow her inside, watching as she immediately starts to head upstairs.
“I’ll be down here if you need me.”
She turns slightly and nods before she disappears.
