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“More than one personat a time,” I say, amazed to even be having this conversation among the serious chatter of the other diners. Briefly, I wonder if they too are engaged in intent discussions on their own sex lives, on their most private fantasies and twisted mind games, or if that’s just something reserved for the chiefs and their most ardent cheerleader. “Not… whatever this is.”
“So you’d give up Fin?” Rory asks in an arch tone, and genuinely I think about it. I think about it hard, about sacrificing every one of Finlay’s aching touches, every yearning kiss, every dizzying bolt of mindless lust he shoots through my core.
But he’s not Rory. He’ll never be Rory. And I know who, ultimately, both Finlay and I defer to.
So I meet Rory’s eyes and tell him honestly, “Yes. If that’s what you want.”
Rory says nothing for the longest time, though he examines the join of our entwined fingers as though it may contain the perfect answer.
“No,” he eventually responds, and my heart settles in my chest, so pleased to belong to such a merciful chief. “It’s not what I want at all. But your answer was.” There’s a small dip between Rory’s brows, as though contemplating the alternative, of a world where I’m Rory’s alone.
And I don’t know why the idea of it makes Rory frown. I don’t understand why he’d rather allow me to play with Finlay when the mood strikes than keep me all to himself.
All I come up with is that I’ve read him wrong.
In the past, I’ve read Rory so very wrong.
“Do you want to know the exact moment I fell in love with you?” Rory asks suddenly, and I stare at him partly in interest, partly in trepidation. Rory pouring out his heart like this, proving to me he has one, still doesn’t feel entirely real. “When you said your favorite book wasA Room of One’s Own.”
I goggle at him. “What? But you were horrible to me that day! You said you hated that book!”
Rory rubs the back of his neck awkwardly, glancing off to the side. “Yeah, well…” He meets my gaze again, his gray eyes glinting with a mischievous edge. “I think I hated you more back then because feminists are deep-down my secret weakness.”
When I laugh in disbelief, he continues more soberly, “I remember my mother reading that book. I read it because of her. And okay, it wasn’t as bad as I made it out that day. I was just being a prick because…” He trails off, his hand squeezing around mine. “Everything I’ve done to you, Jessa, ever since I met you… it’s all been a way to say your name. To get your attention.” He kisses the back of my hand and murmurs, soft lips tickling my skin, “To make you mine.”
