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CHAPTER SIXTEEN

LILLAH

Mila set her fork down and stared at me across the table.

"Are you serious? Marshall stood at the bottom of your porch confronting Brett, while he held flowers and you stood on your porch?"

"Yep. The bastard even brought white roses."

"That is psychotic. The roses, and Brett, not Marshall. Marshall sounds like the leading man out of a goddamn romance novel."

Mila and I were having a late lunch at a small bistro near her office. We had both ordered a salad with grilled chicken and balsamic dressing. I sat picking at my food with a fork as I told Mila everything that had happened over the last couple of weeks, including the sex.

"You are right. He is a romance novel. That is what scares me the most." I said, shoving a piece of chicken into my mouth.

"Why does that scare you?"

I thought for a moment.

"Well, because romance novels end. The real ones feel too good to be read, and the others, the ending is always better than the beginning, and the beginning was already perfect. Plus, when you fall from a higher place, you hit harder. Then you spend the rest of your life wondering if it was ever real or if it was something you wanted so badly, you made it up."

Mila pointed her fork at me, a piece of chicken stuck to the tines.

"That right there is your trauma talking, my dear. I say that with love and a psychology degree that I think I will be paying off forever."

I knew she was right. The rational part of my brain knew that Marshall wasn't Brett. I told her everything, all about our first date and the cooking class, the team dinner and the night after Brett showed up, and the I love you's and about us now being an official couple.

“Then there was the incident the other night at the hockey game. Apparently this player on the opposing team knew Brett. He approached Marshall and started saying things about me.”

“What did Marshall do?”

“Well, he nearly lost it. You should have seen it, his teammates had to pull him back to keep him from getting into a fight.”

“Wow. Have you heard anything from Brett since he showed up on your porch?”

“Just a text message, after that game.”

“Did you tell Marshall?”

I shook my head.

“No, his only reason for messaging would be to get a reaction from Marshall. So, I just left it alone.”

"What happened after the game?" She questioned me, looking as if she was totally invested in the situation.

"Well, he put both his hands on my cheeks and told me to forget what happened. That no matter what was said, to him, I was worth everything."

Mila was quiet. She had stopped eating, and she sat there with her hands wrapped around her water glass, her eyes fixed on me when she cleared her throat.

"Lillah, this man is in love with you."

"No," I said, shaking my head, even though I knew he'd already said it.

"Yes, he is genuinely in love with you. The kind where he wants you to be happy even when it is hard or uncomfortable for him."

"I know."

"Do you? Because from the sound of it, the way you are hesitating, the way you keep circling back to the 'but what if', you sound like you are waiting for the other shoe to drop? I mean, I understand why. After Brett, I would probably be waiting for the entire closet to fall on my head, but Marshall isn't the other shoe. He is the guy who will catch you when the shoe drops."