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We’re running out of time. The spa’s nearly done, the grand opening looms. I can spend the remainder of my time here in his bed, in his arms, or I can spend it trying to draw boundaries I end up ignoring and crossing anyway.
I surrender and crawl into bed, curling against his furnace-hot skin. I hum in my throat, the post-orgasmic glow returning the moment I touch him.
“Admit I’m right.” He hugs me close.
“About?”
“You want to be here.” He kisses the top of my head. “I just can’t figure out why you’re playing hard to get.”
“I’m going back to Miami,” I murmur, reminding us both.
“Yeah, I know.” He goes quiet for a long while before he sighs. “But you’re here now.”
I am, but there are things he doesn’t know. I back away from him and slide my hands under my cheek on my own pillow. “I have my reasons.”
“For sleeping with me?”
I smile. “Well, yes, but I mean for leaving. I’ve been caged by the men in my past before.”
“Not trying to cage you, Wildflower. You’re completely in control of what you do and how you do it. This”—he gestures at the bedroom—“was a choice. I invited, you came.” His lips hitch. “Several times, if memory serves.”
He takes me there faster and more often than any man I’ve been with. My heart lurches. I like him so much. Too much.
“You can’t blame me for trying to change your mind.” A shadow of seriousness slips over his face. “Everything’s better with you here. In my house, my bed. Hell, just knowing you’re next door makes me happy.”
I might hyperventilate.
My smile trembles. His stiffens.
Stepping up what we have could be dangerous for everyone. I’ve never had a relationship work out, and the ones that looked like they might were doomed.
“Wedding’s in May. I want you there.”
My heart stops for a second before realizing he’s talking about Nate and Vivian’s wedding, not proposing to me.
“I’m the best man.” He shoves one arm beneath his pillow, facing me. “Nate flipped a coin. Well, a poker chip. I won. Or lost. Depending on who you ask.”
I have to chuckle, knowing there’s no way he thought he “lost” by being named best man. “Do I offer congratulations or condolences?”
“Either. Both,” he says, his dry humor making an appearance. “He was sappy on the ride home. It was irritating.”
I stretch an arm over his chest and rest my head on his shoulder instead. Burying my nose in his incredible neck, I inhale and shut my eyes. “Stop being so likable.”
“No way.” His fingers take their places in my hair. “Especially if it means you’re starting to like me.”
He barely tugs, and my mouth lands on his. While I’m kissing him, I know three things for certain:
I’m not going back to my townhouse tonight.
I won’t soon forget him telling me everything is better with me around.
And what I feel for him? It’s way more than like.
