Page 121 of Go Back to December

“You’re afraid to stay.”

“Not afraid.” I caress the hollow of his throat. “It’s more like a restlessness. There’s so much I want to see and do. My bucket list is an entire notebook.”

He captures my hand and presses a gentle kiss to my palm. “You stayed at the café. Two years.”

“Longest I’ve been in one place in my entire adult life.”

His lips brush mine. “And now you’re ready to run away to Paris.”

The Lightman is the proverbial elephant in the cabin, the source of the questions I’m avoiding asking.

Can this last?

Does he want it to?

I’m daring to hope that if he spent two years trying to get my attention every morning, that it might.

Baz massages my scalp. A small smile hovers on his lips as he says, “That’s a look I’d leave home for.”

He steals my breath with the heat of his lips and the touch of his tongue, and the sun is well and truly up when we surface for air again.

As he pulls me back to my favorite spot on his shoulder, he says, “Don’t worry about Paris.”

It’s not a promise, but it carries the stamp of his determination.

“There’s so little time,” I whisper.

He pulls me tighter. “It’s still enough to lobby the partners.”

“No, it’s not.” I force myself up on an elbow. “They moved the vote. It’s today.”

I peer down at his perfect chest, but he extends one long finger and props my chin up to meet his gaze.

“I was in the data room,” I confess. “There were documents listing the departments they’re proposing to keep, and those getting cut. It’s not just the café.” I swallow. “It’s your practice too.”

He gathers me to his chest. “I know.”

“You do?”

“I’m part of the integration team, remember? I review all the documents. And I signed an NDA,” he adds quickly, holding me tightly so I can’t squirm from him. “I couldn’t tell you.”

“So you knew they moved the vote?”

“No,” he rumbles. “That is a fresh development.”

“I feel like I’m always a step behind. That everything we did to sway Badger was a waste.”

He takes my face with both hands. “If this brought you here, it is anything but wasteful.”

It’s the sweetest expression of half-full idealism I’ve ever heard, coming out of Baz Johnson’s beautiful mouth, and I’m too overwhelmed to do much of anything, let alone contradict him.

When his features harden, and a hint of the Bad Bastard Johnson mask materializes, I would be a lying liar if I said it didn’t turn me on.

“This isn’t over,” he promises. “Badger sent me a text, asking to meet this morning. I will be convincing.”

“You have to watch out for your own practice. Save your hustle for that, not the café.”

He grins fiendishly. “You’re underestimating the power of my hustle.”