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I trail off as his smirk grows wider and wider.
“Nothing,” he says. “It’s just amazing to see how passionate you get when you talk about your work. Have you written much, then? When did you start?”
“I don’t normally talk about myself.”
“I don’t normally decide to make a stranger the woman I’m going to spend the rest of my life with. I don’t normally feel like said stranger is casting a love spell on me. But here we are.”
“A love spell.” I laugh. “Maybe that’s something I should include in my book.”
“Maybe,” he says, his voice suddenly intense. “But the thing is, Macie, I didn’t need a spell to…”
Suddenly something crashes below us, and then a few people cheer and a few others make posh tsk noises.
I peer down to see a waiter has dropped something, his shirt covered in dark red sauce.
I turn back to Miller, desperate for him to finish what he was going to say.
Was he going to say he loves me, the same way I love him?
Even if it’s impossible.
Even if it makes us crazy.
But the moment has passed, and then our food is here.
Chapter Eighteen
Miller
I can’t believe how close I was to saying I love you.
The words were right there, whispering across my lips, roaring out to be spoken as I stared into the eyes of my queen. It was like my seed was surging around my body with vicious speed, telling me to claim her right now, not to worry about her telling me we’re moving too fast.
But then the waiter dropped the food and it was like it was fate, stopping me before I made a mistake, before I ruined what we’re building.
I watch as she takes a bite of her burger, closing her eyes to savor the taste. I love – love, there’s that word again – the way she enjoys her food, fueling her thick curvy body so she’s ready to carry our children into this world.
She opens her eyes and giggles, swallowing, and that gets my beast mind flitting to other times she might swallow. I imagine her on her knees, her gorgeous breasts freed, staring wide-eyed up at me as her throat flutters the same way it is now.
“This is so delicious.”
“It is,” I agree, even if the taste of her hot pussy was so much better, so much more satisfying.
I push the thought away, focusing on our date.
“So, you were going to tell me when you started writing.”
She cocks an eyebrow. “Oh, was I now?”
“Yes,” I smirk. “You were going to give me a comprehensive history. So, tell me, Macie. What made you want to be a writer?”
“It’s a cliché, but it’s the truth. I can’t remember ever not wanting to be a writer. It might have had something to do with my aunt. After my family… when it was just me and my aunt, it wasn’t like she became this mother figure or anything. She was still very much dedicated to her work. So the times we were closest were when she was writing and I was sitting in her study with her.”
Her whole face lights up as she describes this. I’ve heard that phrase countless times before. But it really happens with my woman, her cheeks blooming, her expression blossoming for me.
She looks like there’s light bursting from inside her.
“Would you write in there with her?”
“Not at first,” she says. “I’d take a book and sit in the corner, listening to the sound of her writing as I read. It’s funny… after her death, I actually recorded myself at her typewriter so I could play it back, you know, sort of like ambient relaxing music.”
My chest squeezes at the thought, a vivid feeling moving through me, lighting up parts of me I didn’t even know existed before Macie came into my life.
“That’s beautiful,” I say.
She tilts her head at me, spunkiness coming into her expression. Watching the sassier parts of her personality emerge is going to be one of the greatest joys of my life, I just know it.
“Do you know how strange it is hearing you get all emotional, Miller?”
I chuckle, nodding. “Yeah, I do. Because it feels strange. But it’s beautiful. Just because I’d tear every bastard in here to pieces if they tried to touch you, it doesn’t change that.”
She bites her lip, nodding.
“I started to write for a school project,” she says after a pause. “I’d always wanted to be a writer, but I guess I’ve always been shy. I was nervous. About failing. About starting. I don’t know. But then I got this school project to write a story and my aunt sat me down and made me write every time she did… and do you know what’s funny?”
“What?” I say, enraptured.
“There wasn’t even a school project. My aunt asked my teacher to set me the task just so I’d have a reason to start writing. That’s why I can’t blame her for having a drink every now and then, for traveling the country, and leaving me alone so much. Because she cared, Miller. She really cared.”
