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“No. Let’s wait for the storm to clear. When she gets here, we’ll tell her in person. And she’ll be fine with it. We’ll be able to begin our lives together, officially.”
She tilts her head at me, as though she doesn’t believe my words. But then she closes her eyes and rests her cheek against my chest.
Chapter Twenty-One
Rayla
I sit at the window with Tanker in my lap, looking out upon the sunny morning landscape. It’s been three days since the storm started. It officially ended last night, which means that Millie’s had plenty of time to arrange her flight up here.
“She should be here any minute,” I murmur, moving my hands almost obsessively over Tanker’s fur, as though by stroking the little guy I can distract myself from what we have to do.
“Yeah,” Roman says, standing on the other side of the room.
I can’t even risk glancing at him. Every time I look at him, I think about how wonderful the past few days have been, when the storm kept going and gave us an excuse to spend more and more time together.
After that first awakening in the bedroom – when my body told me I could definitely take my man – we made love four more times. Once with me on top, digging my fingernails into his chest as I writhed and bounced, hoping I wasn’t making a fool of myself.
But his moans and growling breaths told me how much he enjoyed it, losing himself in the complete carnality of the release.
We stare out at the sunny road together – the water of the lake twinkling, the trees verdant green, the sky clear, as though there was never a storm at all.
But we can’t pretend the rest of it didn’t happen.
Each moment, each breath, I fight to stay where I am, to stop myself from running across the room and into my man’s arms. Or drag him upstairs and sit in his office as he types, my notebook out as I continue to work on my play. I did that last night, as he was writing, scrawling in my notebook.
There’s something about being with him – even wordlessly – that lets me know I can face anything.
Tanker suddenly leaps from my lap, standing still with his head cocked, his tail pricked.
“What is it, boy?” I ask.
“He can hear her,” Roman says, his voice gruff and severe.
I risk a glance at him, my womb giving a pulse, my heart thundering. He’s wearing a shirt with the sleeves rolled up, open at the neck, showing me glimpses of his irrepressible muscles. But it’s the light in his eyes that drives me crazy… the light he gets just before he kisses me before he claims me.
When we make love, we don’t have to think about anything. But the time for putting off our responsibilities is over.
“She’s here?” I murmur.
He sighs, eyes flitting from me to Tanker to the outside world, the world we were able to pretend didn’t exist when the storm was raging.
“Yes, it’s time.”
“So this seems just a tad serious.” Millie giggles as she drops into the chair opposite me. She’s wearing her favorite black beanie hat and a checkered black shirt, the sleeves folded to show the blue butterfly tattoo on her wrist. “I was expecting pancakes and a hello, not an intervention.”
Roman chuckles, but I can hear how hollow it is, how forced.
We agreed that we had to tell Millie the second she got here. We couldn’t lie to her face, sneak around her back, engage in any of that nonsense. It would be too cruel and deceptive.
What, and fucking him without telling her wasn’t? a hateful voice screams inside of me.
“I’ll make us some pancakes soon,” Roman says. “That is if you can stomach them.”
“Hey, your cooking isn’t that bad.”
Millie smiles, but then it falters as her eyes flit between us. Even the arrangement is suspicious, with me and Roman on one side of the table and Millie on the other.
We sit near the dining room window, looking out upon the water, with so much radiance and light blooming across the landscape. But in here it feels harsh, on-edge.
“What’s going on?” she says, a quiver in her voice. “You need to start talking. You’re both acting weird. I’ve never seen you act like this before, either of you.”
I open my mouth to speak, but words desert me.
Instead, I make a strangled sighing noise, something between a croak and a sob. I paw at my cheeks, anger whelming in me when I think about how unfair it is of me to cry.
“Hey, hey.” Millie reaches across the table and takes my hand. “What is it, Rayla? Can somebody please talk to me?”
“Millie, we have something to tell you,” Roman says, his voice gruff, as though he’s holding back a torrent of his own. “You’re going to be confused. Maybe angry. But please give us a chance to explain.”
