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“I can’t say it benefitted me much, but I think it would suit you—being a jet setter.”
I smile despite the knot churning in my stomach and pull at an imaginary thread on the sheets. “I know you’ve always worked in some form of media. Is that what your parents did?”
He barks a laugh. “No. My father is a veteran, and my mother was a librarian before she died.” So, he worked his way up to get where he is now. As if he isn’t impressive enough. “My father still runs five miles a day, but he had a heart attack four years ago. He was too proud to move in here with me and Jay-Jay when I built this house.” He blows out a frustrated breath. “He’s stubborn.”
“No.” I feign shock. “And yet, you’re so patient.”
He simply glares at me, his lips twitching. “So now he lives in an over-priced retirement village and demands I bring him Starbucks every Sunday when I visit.”
“Starbucks?”
“Iced venti London fog tea latte with soy, cinnamon powder, and cinnamon dolce syrup.” He rambles off the order like it’s second nature.
My mouth falls open. “Wow! I think I’m in love with your father.” His lips curl into a crooked smile. “Let me guess. Your order is tea. Black. No milk. No sugar. Boring with a sprinkle of no adventure.” He hates coffee.
Winking, he grips my chin. “You’re paying attention, Ms. Russell.”
We stay silent for a long minute as he gets lost in his thoughts again. The air grows thick before he finally asks, “Do you regret it?”
“What?”
“Not taking the scholarship?”
Back to this again. “Not really. I don’t have time for regrets. I’ll never know where it would have led me, and I love what I do.”
Teasing and in my best attempts to distract us both, I throw my leg over his waist. “Now here I am, in your bed with you. All caught up?”
I laugh.
He doesn’t.
When he leans closer and presses his lips to mine, I forget everything.
My heart still stops because since we woke this morning, I forgot we’re doing this now.
We’re kissing.
We broke another rule.
But we’ve kissed so much, I think we’re trying to make up for all the kisses we didn’t allow. My lips are swollen, but he’s branded them. He’s marked on the skin.
It’s long, hard, deep.
Everything pours out of him, and I drink it back.
Words are useless when his mouth is on mine like this.
He doesn’t have to say it.
I already know.
He’s angry at the world for me, but he doesn’t have to be.
I survived.
I’m here.
So is he.
