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I laugh at that. “Are you sure? You should see what I spend on my hair, nails, and makeup.”
“No,” he says, shaking his head. “That’s not what I mean. You’re just... easy.” Then he starts singing, “Easy Like Sunday Morning” by Lionel Ritchie, and I laugh.
“Like, you’re... just no fuss. You don’t demand things. You don’t ask about my money or my time... away. You’re just you. You let me be.”
His words warm my heart. I always thought these things about me, but wondered what was wrong and started to think maybe guys didn’t want those things since I’d been single so long.
“You know, Taryn told me not to hook up with you,” I admit. “Told me you’d use me and throw me away.”
He stops walking, his brows hitting his hairline. “She fucking said what?”
“I’m serious. Said she read some shit about people who just get out of... prison, and said those relationships don’t last. They’re just hookups. Just sex. It scared me, Eric. It still does.”
He places both hands on either side of my face. “Listen, Christa, and listen good. Taryn doesn’t know what the hell she’s talking about. Yes, it happens. It’s not all the time though. I didn’t leave that place vying for a hookup and a bunch of pussy. I knew I had a lot to fix about myself, and I certainly wasn’t looking for a relationship. You and I... we just kind of fell together. Do you know what I mean?”
I nod, completely agreeing. “Yes, I do. That’s how I feel too. Still... I worry.”
Eric leans down and places a soft kiss on my lips. Opening his eyes he says, “You don’t need to. I love what we have. I want this. You’re my person. Even if you are too good for me.”
It hurts to hear that, and no amount of words is going to make him change his mind. I’d have to prove it with actions. But the caretaker part of my personality—the part that always wants to “fix” someone—won’t let me continue to let him hurt.
“I’m not, though. I’m just a regular girl. I have a past too, you know. Maybe not as... sordid as yours, but I’m no angel.”
“Yes, you are,” he replies immediately. “One sent from heaven that I couldn’t have possibly asked to be more perfect.” He pulls me flush against his body and wraps his arms around my waist. “You’re fucking perfect and I’m never letting you go.”
It warms my entire body to hear those words. Yet, Taryn’s also rings in my ear:“I’ll introduce you, but it won’t be for a while. I’m reading a book right now and trust me, you don’t want him fresh outta prison. Let him go find some ho to get his sex-deprivation outta his system, and when he’s ready, I’ll introduce you.”
I hope I’m not that ho.
Six
Eric
Istand here sweatingin this tuxedo. It’s mid-May. Why is it so damn hot in here? We stand at a makeshift altar in this estate mansion where they chose to have this wedding. It’s drop-dead gorgeous, but nothing’s more beautiful than Christa standing on the other side of Taryn, in a sexy black dress and heels, her colorful tattoos a striking but gorgeous contrast against her pale skin. She catches me staring and she gives me a subtle smile and nervously adjusts the two bouquets of flowers she holds.
We’ve been inseparable lately, hanging out at one or the other’s house after work, having sex, then leaving to go home to our respective homes. Things are moving fast and it scares me, but not enough to want it to slow down. Between kisses and lovemaking, we talk about everything. She said her mom is Irish and her dad is Mexican, and I tease her about it when she gets mad, having had no chance of skipping over a bad temper or the love of a good tequila or whiskey. I have not, myself, had a drink since I got out, except the beer I imbibed the night of my welcome home party at the Silver Breweries pub. And I’m proud of that.
