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“Because it is complicated. Maybe not for you, but it is for me.”
“Is it turtleneck?”
“Stop calling him that. And no. Yes. Not really.”
Chris titled his head. There wasn’t much light in the room, but I could still make out the light brown pools of his eyes and the dark lashes framing them. He was enchanting, and in this room of flowers I couldn’t help feeling like he was some sort of deity—like a construct of nature sent to seduce me into a bed of thorns. “Maybe try telling me the truth for once.”
“What does that even mean?”
“Here, I’ll start.” Chris was still so close I could barely take a deep breath without pushing my breasts into him. He was locking me in place with his eyes, and I thought I couldn’t have moved if I tried.
“I’ll give you one truth, then you give me one,” he said. “Mine is that I haven’t stopped thinking about you since that flight to New York.”
I swallowed. “I’ve wished I would never see you again more times than I can count.”
I meant for the words to bite—if nothing else, for them to dissolve the tension of the moment. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t even think. If he stood this close to me for much longer, I’d do it again. I’d let my urges take over and I’d wind up rolling around with him while some poor proper British family could walk in on us and get an eyeful.
Chris just smiled faintly. “I’d started to think women like you didn’t exist, or that I scared them off.”
“You do scare me.”
“You scare me too. Because I’m starting to think I’d fuck up my life to have you, if that’s what it takes.”
“You’re just saying things,” I breathed. “You just…” I looked down, failing to find the words. “It’s just what you do. This is, I mean. You make girls feel special so they’ll sleep with you. Then they are left feeling like idiots when you move on and they’re left realizing it was all just syrup with no pancakes.”
Chris burst out with a surprised chuckle. “Syrup with no pancakes? Belle. I promise you, there are two firm cakes behind all this syrup, and they’re all yours if you want them.”
I found myself smiling, even though, like always, I wished I wouldn’t. “Keep your cakes away from me, Chris Rose.”
“Not a chance. You’re my wifey, remember?”
Those words weren’t supposed to send golden blasts of gooey warmth rushing through my body, but they did. I wasn’t supposed to let him kiss me, either, but I did.
On the first day of our trip. Less than twenty-four hours since I resolved to be smart and keep this trip professional.
He slid his hand up my shirt, cupping my breast. “I knew you weren’t wearing a bra,” he said between kisses.
I stared up at the interwoven vines and speckling of bright color from flowers above us.
Just this one more time.
Oh, who was I kidding? I needed to move past thinking I was going to fight my feelings for Chris. It was in the open now, whether I’d voiced it or not.
His tongue was circling mine and his hands were squeezing my ass. I could feel his arousal digging into my stomach, and my entire body ached to have it inside me.
Chris knew how I felt. I knew how he felt.
Avoiding it was off the table, and now the only thing I could do was try to protect my heart. I’d let him get his hands on it—among other things—and now all I could do was brace myself for the ride.
I let him pull me to the grass, where he rolled me on my back. His thigh rested between my legs, and as much as I wanted to be reserved and pretend I was only reluctantly allowing this to happen, I found myself pushing my hips up to seek his friction.
Chris hung over me, his messy tangles of hair falling toward me as he watched me with an unknowable expression. “There’s a word I need to get off my chest. I don’t want you to freak out either, but it starts with an ‘L.’”
“Chris…” I said.
“Lackadaisical. It means exactly the same thing as lazy. Why does a word like that even exist, I mean-”
“Shut up and kiss me before I change my mind.”28ChrisIt was an early morning in the French countryside. I leaned out over the balcony of our bread and breakfast as buttery light seeped from the horizon and backlit the funny little French trees lining the road. I briefly wondered if trees could think, and if they could, whether the trees in France would have accents. Then I decided there were certain thoughts you probably should never tell anybody you seriously considered, so I added that particular musing to the overflowing box of others just like it in my head.
