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“Breathtaking. Ridiculously good-looking. Smart enough to join Mensa—but she would never, because she’d probably think that’s pretentious.”
I laugh and tug her toward me.
“Oh no!” she gasps. “What would this mystery woman think about you holding me like this?”
I press my lips to hers and she sighs into me, finally giving me the kiss I’ve been after all day. It starts so innocent. She’s hovering just above me, wearing loose clothes and no makeup, but then I taste her and hear her moan. She sinks lower and our hips connect. I break our kiss and wrap my hands around her back, pulling down until she’s flush with my chest.
“I’m sorry about the last few days. I could have handled it better.”
“Forget it, Foxe.” Her breathing is labored and we’ve barely begun. “Believe me, I have…or at least I’m about to.”
She’s rolling her hips, anxious to continue, but I hold her there against me, trying to get a grip on my emotions. I close my eyes and the last twelve hours flash through me—the fear that seeped in when I arrived at Madeleine’s apartment to find her missing, the elation and envy when she stepped out of Carter’s cruiser, wrapped up and safe in that gray blanket. Now, I can feel her heart beat against my chest, and I have the urge to confess my love for her. It’s only been a few weeks and now suddenly, I want to fast forward and ask her to move in, to convince her that Mouse needs to be here at the farmhouse, that she needs to be with me.
It’s a crazy notion, so I stay silent and wait for the feeling pass.
Except it doesn’t.
I take hold of her cheeks and angle her face back so I can see her eyes. She’s in a dreamy state, staring up at me with unspoken words.
The emotion bubbling up inside of me is a completely new feeling. I fell in love with Olivia slowly, over years. It was a love based in comfort and routine. This thing—Madeleine—is a new kind of love, a scary kind of love. It feels precarious and fragile, like if I’m not careful, I could lose it as easily as I found it.
“Your hands are shaking,” Madeleine says, reaching up to cup my hand against her cheek.
I laugh and glance away. “It’s nothing.”
“Adam.”
She doesn’t continue until I turn back to her.
“I’m feeling what you’re feeling,” she admits, leaning forward and pressing her soft lips to my jaw, my cheek, my mouth. They’re short, reassuring kisses, and I pinch my eyes closed, wondering if what she said could be true. “I promise, I feel it too.”
But we don’t say it. Not yet.
Instead, I tug her t-shirt over her head and toss it behind the couch. The shorts go next, and there on the couch, with the sun streaming in through the window, we have the slowest, most intimate afternoon of sex. I roll her on her back and hold my weight above her, desperate to remember the bits and pieces that seem so fleeting: the feel of her fingertips skating down the backs of my arms, the delicate softness of her neck as she arches up and whispers my name, her heels digging into my lower back, her skin so flushed that she looks almost burned by our lovemaking.
“Madeleine?” I whisper her name.
She’s collapsed on top of me, napping, and I don’t think she’s awake, but I want her to be.
“Hmmm?” she hums lazily.
I love you.
Move in with me.
Marry me.
The silence drones on and she blinks her eyes open, folds her hands, and props her chin right there on my chest.
“You know you haven’t even asked me to be your girlfriend yet.”
I laugh at the absurdity of it considering the thoughts spiraling through my mind. “I haven’t?”
“No. You announced it to your mom, but you never asked me.”
My fingers are tracing a loose pattern on her naked back. “Madeleine, c’mon. You’re my girlfriend.”
She smiles, and maybe for right now, this is enough.
“They’re going to miss me at the singles events. I was the life of the party.”
“I bet.”
“And I’ll have to cancel my accounts on all the dating apps.”
“I want to see your profile first.”
“Why?”
“So I can judge your pics and your bio. What did it say?”
She looks away. “I don’t remember.”
I grin. “Yes you do.”
She rolls her eyes. “Fine. Buxom brunette bombshell seeks billionaire to fix her financial woes. Millionaires need not apply.”
“Madeleine…”
“Sexy real estate agent wants to show you her 1-bedroom.”
“These are coming too easily to you.”
“Sex robot seeks first real human emotion.”
I groan.
“Okay fine, here’s the real one: Adorably dysfunctional twenty-something seeks handsome veterinarian. Serious offers only.”CHAPTER TWENTY-NINEMADELEINEThree months later, I’m in Adam’s kitchen, scrambling to leave for work on time. I have on one high heel, and my hair is still up in curlers. My coffee sits cold and forgotten on the counter.
