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I laugh and point to my section. “I kind of took that liberty.”
“Good,” he says, and I can feel he means it.
“How was your meeting?”
“Not bad. Not great. I need to talk to Grayson but he’s in a meeting. You hungry?”
“Shockingly after our big lunch, I am. Is there a gym in the building.”
“We have a gym. You know you really should take time to go explore.”
“I guess I should.”
He catches my hand and leads me out of the closet. “That’s my side of the sink.”
“Is it now?”
“Yes.” I glance up at him. “Is that okay?”
“I always hated that side of the sink. It’s all yours.”
I laugh, and we head downstairs, debating our dinner choices. We ultimately order takeout from a Mexican joint Eric loves, and the delivery is fast, and the food amazing. I approve of his choice and soon our bellies are full, and we curl into an oversized chair in front of a stunning city view, the sun long gone. The city lights twinkling and winking, almost as if they’re celebrating this chance we have at peace. Some part of me knows that we have a world ofevil waiting for us outside this apartment but the idea that this is our safe place together, our home together, fills me with warmth I can’t wish away. I need this. Obviously, Eric needs this, too.
And so, we sit there, staring out at the city in a few minutes of comfortable, relaxed quiet, each of us sipping from our glasses, enjoying a delicious red blend wine. Eric and I have just set our glasses on a small round stone table that is to his right, when he drags my leg across his lap. “Can you learn to love this city, Harper?”
“I already do. You’re here.”
“Bennett has operations all over the world,” he says. “If you end up hating this city, we’ll move.”
That offer speaks worlds to me. He’s all in with me. We really are the team that I doubted just hours ago. I lean forward and press my hand to his. “We can go where we decide we want to be, but I love that this place is your life. I love that it can be my life.”
“It’s already your life,” he says, cupping my hand and kissing my knuckles. “It’s our life, Harper.”
“And I love that, but being here with you lets me learn all about you. I want to know your favorite places. I want to know your friends. I want to see your brilliant mind work and—” I consider a moment, then continue, “I want to know what every tattoo on your body says and the story that goes with it.” I point to a row of numbers. “This one. What does it mean?”
He laughs, low and rough, so damn sexy. “That one: mud puddles.”
I frown. “What? What does that mean?”
“Family and no, not my fucked-up Kingston family.” He doesn’t wait for the obvious next question. He launches into the story. “I was on a mission during a particularly bad rainy season in Europe. Me and three other SEALs had to drag each other through mud puddles that felt like quicksand to complete a mission and survive.”
“And you helped each other,” I supply. “The way family is supposed to help family.”
“Yes. Exactly.”
“I’d pull you through mud puddles, or well, I’d probably just fall in it with you.”
He laughs again, and it’s so good to see him like this. “I’d stay in the mud puddles if you were with me.”
I smile at his reply. “What happened to those SEALs?”
“Westay connected, but it’s more—a pack. We live our lives separately, but we have a communication system. If we ever need each other, we’re there for each other, no questions asked.”
I’m in awe of this discovery. He has SEAL buddies—no,brothers—that would come to help him if needed, and while I wonder if he’s considered that now, with the mob, I find myself resisting the idea of letting that hell into our evening. As it is, I expect the phone to ring at any moment and while I welcome answers, I really do want this time alone with Eric.
We spend almost two hours drinking wine and talking about everythingbutthe Kingstons. He gravitates toward telling me funny stories about a few of his Navy pals, which I believe is because they are so far removed from this life, this world. He meant it when he said he needed an escape. In turn, I avoid the Kingstons and share stories of my frequent outings with my father, who I went to a Sunday movie with two times a month.
“Movies,” Eric murmurs, stroking a strand of hair from my eyes. “I haven’t been to the movies in years.”
