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“Hmm. Priscilla works in an upscale secondhand store. She’s a writer and I’m her biggest fan. She’s white, in case you care.”
He shifted to get a more comfortable position with his arm. “Is she your best friend?”
“Actually Jennifer is, but Pris and I are almost as tight. We’re all friends. We went to college together in Seattle. Jen’s so bizarre. Get this, her mother is a non-religious teacher from Detroit, while her father is a devout Catholic from Puerto Rico. And their marriage works for some freaky reason. So Jen speaks fluent Spanish and English, but she’s also obsessed with French. Talking to her when she's in the mood to blend all three is mind-numbing. She got my old job at TineeSoft, only she works on the campus, not remotely. She’s black, by the way.”
“Why are you telling me her color? And Pris’s?”
“Because. It’s a factoid. I like factoids.”
“Just a factoid?” he probed. “Are you sure?”
“To me? Yeah.” She twirled her fingers in his chest hairs. “To you? Who knows?”
He gripped her hand. “I think you do know.”
She paused in her twirling, then resumed. “That remains to be seen, bud.”
“Fair enough.” A long pause. “I have a factoid if you want one.”
She wiggled her hand free and ran it along his side, loving the tender, satiny skin between the ridges and bumps. “What’s that?” she asked playfully.
He didn’t respond. She raised her head and saw him being dead serious.
“What’s that?” she repeated more softly.
“Love doesn’t take as long as you assume.”
Her fingers stilled. “Oh, it doesn’t?”
“No. Sometimes it only takes a day or two. Or—a few hours.”
“You mean, like on a fake date?” she whispered.
“I mean you. And me. I mean this.” He shifted, covered her hand, his face intent. “Tell me the most fucking beautiful person I’ve ever met isn’t going to make me fall in love with her pretty much instantly.”
She blew out a breath.
“You can’t,” he said, burying his face in her neck. “Because I’m right.”
“I…I…don’t have any desire to argue with you right now.”
“For once.” She felt him form a smile. “I was almost positive you would.”
“I mean if you’re willing to hand out rash declarations, I’m not about to stop you….”
“Oh, I’m willing.” He lifted his head. “I love you. Consider it declared.”
I love you.
They washed over her, those deep, beguiling words, from a man who would never utter them casually.
“Hmm.”
“Don’t believe me, honeycrisp?”
“No, I do.” She sighed. “I believe you. And I’m fighting every rational, self-preserving instinct in me that tells me not to say it back.”
“Preserve yourself, Paula Raymond,” he advised. “All you like. I’m not going anywhere.”
