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“Of course,” I say passionately. “I don’t want anyone else.”
I’ve never wanted anyone else, but I can tell Madden doesn’t like it when I talk about my girlhood crush.
He only wants to think of me as the woman I am today, the woman who ignites that fiery desire in his expression, that tension that grips his whole body.
I find myself able to accept it now, this possessive compulsion.
Maybe it’s because he took me to The Endless Searcher. He shared something with me he’s never dared of before.
“So, are you still going to be my writing teacher?” I ask as I twist spaghetti around my fork.
And at the same time, I’m asking myself why the heck I chose spaghetti of all dishes. It’s probably the messiest meal I could’ve picked unless I’d ordered a freaking pot full of baked beans or something. But being in this fancy place is making my head swim, and my only anchor is Madden, my Madden.
“Of course,” he says. “As long as you promise not to get offended if I tell you an idea isn’t working so well. I don’t want to upset you.”
“Hey, I’ve got thicker skin than you think.”
He looks long and hard at me, causing even more prickles of titillation to course up and down my body, a never-ending stream of them.
“I think you said that as a joke, Maddie. But you really are so much more… more everything than you give yourself credit for. Smarter, more beautiful, a better writer, kinder – all those little things you put yourself down about, you don’t need to, never again.”
I bite down on my spaghetti as his words strike my chest, pleading with me to believe them, to believe him.
I’ve never thought of myself as any of that before, but I can’t deny how alluring it is.
To see myself as he sees me, to be the woman he thinks I am.
“I know you better than you know yourself,” he goes on, his voice a deep baritone. “Oh, maybe not all the details. They’ll come during our long, beautiful, perfect relationship. But the essential pieces of you, the confident genius hiding inside the shy girl, I see it, see her, see you. And I consider it my duty to bring out that side of you.”
He chuckles toward the end, shaking his head.
“Listen to me. You’ve got me in one hell of a mood today, Maddie. I’m ruining dinner.”
“Hush,” I say, even if I can tell he’s joking. “I hope you’re right… about you being able to see parts of me I can’t see myself. Because, well, later.”
That's all I need to say. He knows what point I’m trying to make, as though he can peer inside my mind and catch the thoughts swirling around.
“In the incredibly unlikely scenario that you’re not everything I need – which you are, you already are, just by being you – then we’ll try again, Maddie. There’s no pressure on you. You don’t have to live up to any ideal. Just by being you, beautiful funny charismatic Maddison, you’re enough. So stop your stressing, okay?”
“I’ll try,” I tell him with a smile, even as a ghostly hand tightens around my heart. “Can you believe I only sent you that letter a couple of weeks ago? Look where we are now.”
He finishes chewing a piece of steak, swallows, and then reaches across the table. My body is so freaking receptive to his. Just the feeling of the back of his hand against my neck – stroking up and down rhythmically – is enough to make goosebumps rise all over my skin.
“That feels good,” I whimper.
“This is just the beginning, Maddie,” he says. “There’s so much left waiting for us. The first time we hold our child. The first time we hear the words, Mommy and Daddy. The first time you publish a book. Your first signing. Your first tour. Your first movie deal. Our first Christmas.”
“And all because you fell in love with my handwriting.”
I giggle, blinking back tears.
His face hardens, his hand pauses against my mine.
For a second I’m left floundering.
What the heck did I say?
Then it hits me.
Fell in love.
I said he fell in love with me.
But we haven’t said the L-word yet. And, judging by Madden’s expression, even for us it’s too fast.
I dart my hand up and squeeze onto his, pressing it firmer against my skin.
“How’s your steak?” I ask because it’s the only thing I can think to say.
“Delicious,” he murmurs, withdrawing his hand and picking up his silverware. “And your spaghetti?”
“Delicious,” I echo, wondering what the heck just passed between us.
Does he love me? Do I love him?
I don’t think that’s a fair question. I loved him before I met him.
“But messy,” I go on, as I twirl some around my fork. “I’ve spent half the meal trying not to get any on my dress. That’d get me first prize for the biggest dork in the universe competition, don’t you think?”
