I was already in bed when he came back in from talking to his brother—his brother, who had treated me like part of the family. I was tired from all the events of the day…meeting Sawyer and Daniela, spending time with the family.
But now I couldn’t sleep.
Now I was reading my book—a spicy scene, of course—and I couldn’t stopthinking.
I listened as Forrest came in, his footsteps followed by Nickel’s toenails on the wood floors. I listened as he puttered around for a few minutes…as he shut down the house.
As he went to his own room and shut the door.
And I was…
I don’t know.
I wanted something from him. Anything. I wanted,neededto talk about what had happened.
I was sick of feeling guilty. Sick of wanting.
I knew I wanted to stay, but I didn’t know if I could stay and deal with him treating me like I was a mistake.
Because that's what it felt like. Like I was something he regretted. Like those kisses were a lapse in judgment he was too polite to say out loud.
And I was sick of it.
I set the book down on my chest and stared at the ceiling.
The cottage was quiet. Just the creek and the goats and the stillness of the Hill Country, and somewhere down the hall a man who had kissed me back and then acted like it hadn't happened for two weeks.
I picked the book back up.
Read the same paragraph three times.
Put it down again.
No,I thought.No, this is not how this goes.
In every single book I'd read, the heroine waited. She was patient and she suffered prettily and eventually the hero came around on his own timeline. And maybe that worked for them. Maybe that was romantic.
But I had spent four years waiting. Four years being patient. Four years keeping my mouth shut and my head down and my wants to myself, and where had that gotten me?
I was done waiting.
I pushed the covers back before I could talk myself out of it.
I didn't think about what I was wearing, which was the pajamas Haven had given me the first night—soft cotton, white flowers on blue. I didn't think about my hair or my bare feet. I just walked to the door and went down the hall and stopped in front of his door.
The light was off underneath it.
I lifted my hand. Knocked twice, soft.
Silence.
Then: "Yeah."
Low. Awake. Like he hadn't been sleeping either.
"Are you up?" I asked.
A beat.
