Page 62 of Sweet Surrender

Yeah. No doubt it does.

It doesn’t matter how nice a house is, the walls can still feel like confinement. I know that for a fact. That’s how I first felt when stardom struck and I was struggling to adjust.

But then she goes and does this.

I scrape a hand down my face and exhale harshly.

I promised Nathaniel. I told him I wouldn’t touch her, wouldn’t complicate shit. I need her to help me pull this charade off and the last thing I want to do is fuck things up.

But damn if she isn’t making this difficult to stand my ground.

I said what I said to her earlier though, didn’t I? I talked the talk. I saw her reaction—wide eyes, hitched breath, pebbled nipples—with my own eyes.

She wants me just as bad. I’d hang one of my Grammys on it.

A four-month fling? Nothing serious. Nothing deep. She said she’s sworn off men so I know she wouldn’t be clingy and ask for more. The only thing I’d have to worry about is it ending sooner than our marriage does.

At least that’s my reasoning as I take a shower, brush my teeth, and get ready for bed. But that reasoning ends up carrying me down the hall, past the dimly lit loft area, and toward her cracked bedroom door.

I push it open a few inches. She’s curled on her side, the blankets twisted around her legs, and one arm tucked under her cheek. In the faint glow of the moonlight spilling in through the window, she looks . . . soft. Vulnerable.

A strange sensation tightens in my chest but I ignore it. The woman cooked me dinner. She’s uprooted her life for me. Of course I have a soft spot for her. Care for her. What guy wouldn’t?

Walk away, Giz.

Thoughts of her on my lap fill my head.

Walk the fuck away.

Of my hands on hers. Of the surprise in her eyes when she got it right.

I shift my feet and when the floor creaks beneath me, she stirs to life. Shit.

“Jase?” Her lashes flutter as her eyes blink open. She frowns, then pushes up onto her elbows. “Did you need something?”

I rub the back of my neck. “Hey.”

“You’re aware you’re standing in my doorway like that serial killer thing we talked about, right?”

I huff out a laugh and lean my shoulder on the doorjamb. “Funny.”

She stares at me for a beat, then tilts her head, voice softer. “You okay?”

No. Yes. Hell if I know.

“Thank you for dinner. You could have come gotten me. I would have eaten with you—celebrated that first with you.”

“I didn’t want to bug you. Plus Halle was still here, and I don’t know that dynamic and—”

“You’re rambling.”

“I tend to do that.”

“So I’ve noticed,” I say softly. “Thank you. That was . . . unexpected. Thoughtful. Exactly what I needed after a long day working.”

Her smile is soft but I can’t read her eyes through the darkness. “No need to thank me.”

“There is, but if I say it again you’ll be stubborn and argue,” I tease.