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“Oh?”
“I feel… fucking awful, Faith.”
Her soft laugh raises goosebumps on my arms, and despite my clawing agitation, I smirk up at her. This is ridiculous, and we both know it.
“You’re not enjoying the waiting game, Andre?”
No. Each minute feels like an hour.
“Turns out ‘years’ is a long time.”
“How about a negotiation?”
Well, why not? As long as I give her time to mull it over, time to change her mind, would shortening the time frame be so bad? Like Faith said earlier: she’s a grown woman. She can make her own choices, and if she chooses me… I’ll simply make sure I earn her. That I’m good enough for this angel.
“Six months,” I say.
“Five minutes,” Faith returns. Ha.
“One month.”
“One hour.”
“One night.”
Faith inhales sharply, and I realize what I’ve offered: tomorrow. My skull throbs with a headache, but I don’t take it back.
Here it is: the end of my rope.
“Deal,” she says softly. “Don’t you dare change your mind, Andre Silva.”
Not possible. “Tomorrow,” I tell her, and it feels like an oath.
Six
Faith
In all the years I’ve known him, Andre has always seemed irritatingly well rested. He’s a beautiful man who glows with good health—usually.
This morning, as he thumps on my front door at the crack of dawn, I pull it open to find him rumpled and scowling. The shadows under his eyes from yesterday are even darker, and his dark hair is tied back, messy strands coming loose. His jeans and black t-shirt are creased.
“Wow.” I step back and wave him inside, and my voice sounds so casual. Not at all like I’m about to explode out of my skin with nerves. “You really need your beauty sleep, huh?”
The sour look Andre gives me makes my tummy flip. “It’s tomorrow. The sun has officially risen.” He jerks a thumb at the blood red line on the horizon behind him; the blush pink sky and wisps of cloud.
Did he stand out there all night waiting for the first sliver of sunrise? No, he’s changed his clothes, and his hair looks damp. He smells like shampoo.
“I couldn’t sleep either,” I blurt.
It’s true. As soon as we hung up last night, I tossed and turned for hours, replaying our conversation over and over in my head, half afraid that I hallucinated the whole thing. But here he is—hereweare.
Alone.
“Should I—”
“Could we—”
We both break off with weak smiles, and god. Is hooking up always this awkward? We’re both hovering on the hallway tiles, hands loose at our sides.
