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Wells saunters in, surveying the room with a cocked brow, which makes Ty and me lose it more.
“We’ll save that one for later,” Ty says with a snicker, referring to Wells.
I nod. “Better be good with all the extra time you’ll have.”
His kind eyes twinkle with amusement. “Challenge accepted.”
Wells sidles up beside me, fingers grazing down my arm, leaving goose bumps in their wake, before threading with mine. “Let me show you your room.”
While his touch is thrilling, relief floods my veins that there’s a separate room for me. Of course, the part of me that has lost all sagacity is pouting in disillusionment. A pang stings my gut, like I’m almost wishing for a one-room, one-bed, green-card marriage. It’sas though every moment of wise decision-making and overthinking that has driven my life choices is disintegrating at the foot of Gavin Wells.
Tonight, I’ve had fun, felt connected and seen—all the markings of a fantastic first date. But marriage? He’s showing me to my room, in his house, where I will live as his wife with a separate bedroom and three other male roommates. This is the dumbest idea I’ve ever considered. But if not this, then what? One of those pretentious, waxy society bores my mother picked?Ughhh.Even if one of them could be a decent pick for this completely fucked-up situation, I can’t bear the thought of herstriking a deal, like I’m an arm candy offering.
This is maddening. I should forgo my inheritance. That’s the smart thing to do. Walk away. I have my art, my education, my connections. Starting fresh wouldn’t be so bad, and it’s not as though my mother will kick me out and disown me. Plus, I’ve never really cared about the money. Although it’s easy to say that, having always had it. I might not be spoiled, but being broke still probably wouldn’t suit me, not that it suits anyone.
“Ivy?” Wells’s voice cuts through my thoughts, and I realize I haven’t absorbed anything he’s shown me.
We’re standing in the middle of a beautiful bedroom with classic decor—cream walls, plush cream-and-black bedding with purple accents in the pillows, drapes, and coffered ceiling. Tasteful and elegant.
My eyes flit around the room before landing on his. “Yeah?”
He chuckles. “I was showing you that you’ll have an en suite bathroom, but you seem to be thinking about something else.”
“Sorry … I struggle with staying present … a lot.” My heart is hammering in my chest, making it difficult to catch my breath. “It can be frustrating for other people—”
“I’m not frustrated.” His fingers squeeze mine. He’s still holding my hand.
“No?” I ask, mesmerized by our tethering. It’s been two dayssince we met. Right? Or three? Doesn’t matter. It’s strange, new, and familiar at once.
“No. Where did you go this time?”
This time.Because I drifted away at the restaurant too. Most of the time, it doesn’t embarrass me. I don’t usually worry about impressing people or care if they’re irritated by my zoning out—it’s not as though I purposely lose myself or lose time—but nothing about this, about him, is usual.
“Just thinking about being here … or not,” I answer.
“Ahh.” He moves us a few steps into the wall so I can lean back comfortably. “It’s a lot to think about. And at the restaurant? Where’d you go when you zoned out there?”
“I’m not sure,” I lie.
Sharing that isn’t happening because at the restaurant, I was imagining how different this would have been if he’d simply seen me, felt an attraction, and asked me out. How maybe we’d be swept up in one another, have a passionate love affair, and marry the old-fashioned way. Maybe the way we’re handling it is somewhat old-fashioned—marriage as a business deal. Regardless, that little jaunt into the beauty of what could’ve been if this inheritance issue hadn’t stolen it lent a muted echo of peace. Peace that isn’t mine to hold.
Dandelion dreams.
“You don’t want to tell me.” There’s a sternness to his tone, proclaiming he doesn’t appreciate me withholding something. “I asked because you seemed free at the restaurant, but this time, you were anxious.” He braces his shoulder against the wall, close enough now for me to feel his breath cascading over my cheek and neck even though he towers over me with my heels on.
Can he hear my battering pulse? See the chilled bumps?
He tips my chin up so I’m staring into his dizzying emerald eyes. “Are you having second thoughts? Don’t lie to me this time.”
Being the inexperienced dater that I am, the intimacy in this moment—his command to tell him the truth, the raspy timbre heused to deliver it, his proximity to me, and his knuckle under my chin—is overwhelming.
Overwhelming yet invigorating. And even as I feel it all slipping away, I know this feeling will be a lingering tingle.
A butterfly’s kiss.
I suck in a slow, composing breath, deciding I want to tell him the truth. To show him he can trust me. “Yes. I’m having second thoughts. I’m someone who keeps my word, so while I’m not saying no, I can’t …”
His thumb sweeps across my jaw before falling away, an empty ache left in its absence. “Cold feet are natural when people have spent months or even years planning for their union. I think I can let yours slide.”
