We moved slowly. Soup aisle. Pasta. Bread. She reached for a box of crackers, hesitated, then put it back. “Get them,” I said.
“I don’t need?—”
“You will,” I replied. “And you like them.”
She blinked at me. “How do you know that?”
“You brought them on your lunch break twice last week.”
Her cheeks warmed. “You pay attention.”
“To you,” I said, because there was no point pretending otherwise. “Yes.” There it was again. A desperate need to hold her, to slide my fingers through hers and justbewith her in this store.
At checkout, she tried to argue about splitting it. I didn’t let her.
“This is part of the deal,” I said quietly. “Shelter includes groceries.”
She studied my face like she were trying to decide if this was generosity or something heavier. “Okay,” she said at last. “But I’m cooking one night.”
I smiled before I could stop myself. “I look forward to it.”
Outside, the snow had thickened. The world felt hushed. We loaded bags into the trunk together, our shoulders brushing, neither of us stepping away. As I closed the trunk, she looked up at me, eyes bright, nose pink from the cold.
“Thank you,” she said. “For… this.”
I nodded lamely. “You’re welcome.”
It felt inadequate. It felt…fake.So I stopped holding myself back. Now that my hands were free, I leaned in, pressing my lips to hers. Anya gasped, freezing as our lips touched. My hand curled around the back of her neck, twisting her unruly curls around my finger.
“Desmond,” she breathed against my mouth, hands fisting in my coat. The world tilted, and a wave of relief so profound washedover me when she melted into me that my knees nearly buckled. Her lips were soft, if not a little chapped from the wind and the cold.
When we finally got back in the car, she rubbed her hands together, then tucked them under her thighs. Without thinking, I reached over, tugging her left hand out from underneath her and lacing my fingers through hers. She looked up at me, and…fuckif I wouldn’t give her the world if she asked for it.
Chapter 30
Anya
Iwoke up shivering.
We’d said little once we got to his house —mansion. We had just unpacked the car, and he showed me to the spare room.
Fuckingspareroom.
And when I woke up, and the clock on the wall read 8:07am, all I felt was cold.
It wasn’t the dramatic kind that causes panic. The slow, creeping cold that slid under the blankets and settled into my bones.
The guest room was very nice. Almost a little too nice. Thoughtful in a way that made my chest ache. Fresh sheets. A folded towel on the dresser. A glass of water already waiting on the nightstand.
Desmond hadn’t assumed anything. That was the problem. I’d be lying if I didn’t have… notions about how this weekend would go. And almost every single thought I’d followed had ended in sex.
Sex that wouldn’t be happening in separate rooms.
I lay there for a minute, staring at the ceiling, listening to thehouse breathe. The wind pressed against the window. Somewhere, the heat clicked on and off, fighting a losing battle against the storm.
I told myself to be reasonable. To grab another blanket. To put on socks. Heaven knew there was enough ofeverythingstacked on the small ottoman at the end of the bed.
Instead, I sat up.
