If only she could stay in this fairy tale forever.
Chapter 25
“Fannystown.”
Ben raised a brow in a silent dare. “Intercourse.”
A laugh burst out of Rose’s chest and she pressed her fingers to her lips as if to contain it. “That can’t be real.”
“It is.” Ben pulled her fingers away and caught her mouth with his. He loved the sound of her laugh and wished he could be funnier for her. “Outside Philadelphia. Far tamer than it sounds, though.”
She sat up and pulled the sheet with her, holding it against her chest as she squared her shoulders. “Stranagawilly.”
He tugged playfully at the sheet and she collapsed against him, giggling as he wrapped his arms around her. “You’re making that one up.”
“I swear I’m not. It’s in Ireland, I think.”
Ben couldn’t stop kissing her, even though they’d stumbled into a game of naming lewd-sounding towns from their respective nations. After scandalizing the neighborhood, they had descended from the rooftop to his apartment and hadn’t paused before stripping off each other’s clothes. At some point they fell asleep tangled up with each other, but Ben was used to waking with the sun.
She’d been gorgeous in his bed, his Briar Rose now a sleeping beauty, her chestnut hair fanned out over his pillow, long limbs stretched and a sated smile on her lips. Despite making his coffee as quietly as possible, she had woken up and pulled him back into bed, and their most recent bout of lovemaking had somehow led them to this ridiculous conversation.
“Tooting!” Rose cried triumphantly, and Ben laughed.
“How do you know these?”
Wig hopped on the bed to curl into a ball next to Rose’s hip, having forgotten Ben and claiming Rose as his rightful owner. She stroked her fingers through his dark fur and scratched the longer hair between his ears. “Fern had this massive atlas,” she said, keeping her gaze trained on the cat. “She set out to memorize it, and my father was so proud of her.” The corners of her eyes wrinkled, the same longing and distant look she always had when talking about her family. “I did my best but could never keep up, so I looked for the ones with lewd names, hoping I would at least make him laugh.”
“Did you?”
She gave him a tight smile. “At first. He made me swear never to tell my mother. But he lost interest when Fern memorized all the capitals of Asia in a single day.”
Ben crawled across the bed to her and pulled her against him, wrapping himself around her, protecting her. Wig stood in protest, stretched and stalked to the bottom of the bed, where he settled again. She would have to go to Boston, and soon. Rose would continue to hurt until she reconciled with her sister. That pain would only fester if she let it go unresolved, eating away pieces of her heart until she had nothing left.
She couldn’t remain in Brooklyn. He should have told her how he felt last night, should have asked her to stay, begged her to give him a chance. But she had been a goddess on that rooftop, and he was the mere mortal who was blessed to be in her presence. What could he offer her?
But he still had time, precious days with her. Perhaps if Ben convinced her to stay, he could show her what life in Brooklyn would be like. Show her what life withhimwould be.
“You never asked me about my luncheon with Stewart,” she said as she stroked the fine dusting of hair across his chest.
He stiffened, a punch of nausea hitting him in the gut. “Stewart?” Better to feign ignorance than show how the man’s name affected him.
“Stewart Ruffgate, Linden’s aide. You knew who I meant.”
He ignored her remark. “I didn’t want to hear about it, honestly.”
She sat up, a wicked smile spreading on her berry lips. “Are you jealous, Benjamin?”
Christ, the sound of his full name on her lips made him hard. “A bit.” More than a bit. Ruffgate was exactly the type of man Rose belonged with. “Did he treat you with the respect you deserve?”
“Oh my goodness, youarejealous!“ She cupped his cheeks and kissed the tip of his nose. “Are you going to challenge him to a duel? I’ve always wanted men to fight over me.”
He laughed, although the idea of planting a facer on Ruffgate—Stewart—was strangely appealing. “No, I prefer battles of wit over brawn.”
“Would it be pistols at dawn, or swords?”
“None, Rosie.” He hesitated as doubt curled around the edges of his mind. “Do you want someone who would fight for you?”
“Of course, who wouldn’t?” She narrowed her eyes. “Notliterally, unless the situation called for it. Frankly, I would be happy if someone merely chose me.”
