Page 168 of A Dangerous Kind of Love

The days and weeks following my mom’s death haven’t been easy. Grief comes in waves and arrives when I least expect it. Some days I convince myself that I’m doing fine, only to see something that reminds me of her or hear a song she loved, and I completely fall apart.

Michael’s been wonderful through all of it. I practically forced him to go back to work. He wanted to be there while I moved all of my things out of the house, but he had taken enough time away. Sarah helped me pack instead. We spent a week surrounded by half-filled boxes and plastic totes, packing up everything I owned. Most nights, we drank too much and stayed awake talking about memories that followed me from childhood into the woman I’ve become.

Sarah and Luca have surprisingly moved just as quickly as Michael and I have. Last week, she broke her apartment lease, packed up all of her things, and moved into his house. They’ve even booked a trip to the Bahamas together in October. When I asked her about it, she told me that love can’t wait, and that she was sorry for ever questioning me about Michael. She said he’s a good man, and she’s glad I’ve found someone who takes care of me.

I was honestly taken aback. She had been so sure that he was going to take control of my life, and suddenly she supported our relationship 100%. When I questioned her, she said she saw the way he was those days after my mom’s death. She was so surprised that he invited her to the funeral home that day to plan everything. In her mind, she thought Michael would eventually want Sarah out of my life, but it was the complete opposite. He knew that I needed that support, and he told her as much.

Michael told me I could bring anything I wanted from the house to the estate. Most of it went into storage, but I did bring a few things. I brought the picture I painted of Symi, Greece, into our bedroom. It hangs beside one of the windows overlooking the grounds. The other night, Michael found me sitting on the window seat, staring up at it.

He sat down beside me and said, “I’ll take you there one day.”

I threw my arms around his neck, and he pulled me into his lap. I kissed him until he finally laughed and told me dinner was getting cold and Beatrice was going to give him hell for it. I laughed against his lips and told him I guessed that was reason enough to finally eat.

Now, every time I look at that picture, I think about how one day I’ll get to see all the places my mom once saw.

“Doll?”

I look up to find Michael standing in the doorway of the conservatory where I’ve spent most of the afternoon painting a butterfly.

“Hi,” I say, smiling at him.

He smiles back and walks toward me. His white dress shirt is slightly wrinkled from the day, and his tie is already loosened around his neck. When he reaches me, he rests one hand against the back of my neck and leans down to kiss me where I’m sitting on the bench.

“You look beautiful.”

I laugh quietly. “You’re such a liar.”

I’m wearing an oversized shirt covered in paint stains and black leggings. My curls are piled into some strange mix between a bun and a ponytail, and there isn’t a trace of makeup on my face.

“That’s one thing I’d never lie about,” he says.

“Whatever.” I stand and start cleaning up my brushes. “Sarah and Luca will be here at seven.”

He drags a hand down his face with a groan.

“Don’t act surprised. You’ve known all week.”

“Yeah, and I’ve hated it all week.”

“You’re so fucking dramatic.”

“No,” he says, moving in behind me until I can feel his chest against my back.

“Michael…”

“I was gonna take you upstairs, bend you over the edge of our bed, and keep you there all night.”

I swallow hard and grip my paintbrushes because one look at him and every plan for tonight will disappear. His arm circles my waist, and his hand disappears beneath my shirt. The second he realizes I’m braless, he lets out a low sound against my neck.

“Katie,” he says warningly, squeezing my breast in his palm. “You can’t walk around this house like this.”

I melt back against him for a second as he kneads it. His mouth brushes my ear.

“Let me take you upstairs.”

He drags my hand down to the hard outline pressing against his pants.

“Michael.”