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I’m taken back to a simple time with Mama outside potting her new flowers on the rusty old deck with her straw hat and garden gloves on. She sung to herself often, and at the time, I prayed she would stop because it distracted me when I was reading on the porch chair. Plus, I wasn’t a Barry Manilow fan and preferred the upbeat tunes of Hanson.
And now, I would kill to be back in that moment.
I’m quick to distract myself by staring at a photograph on the wall. It’s a bunch of men posed in front of a plane, Wesley included.
“I’m sorry. How did she pass?”
“She didn’t.” I swallow, keeping my sentence short. “She’s back home.”
He nods his head, leaning on the wall beside me. His eyes examine my face, causing that rippling effect to grace my skin. I ignore him, desperate to distance myself away from this feeling. He does something to me. I don’t know what it is. I’m scared of him, yet fearless at the same time. That makes no sense to me whatsoever.
Nothing about tonight makes sense.
“So many secrets… I hate secrets.” His tone is bitter, a sudden change from a moment ago.
“I don’t have secrets. I told you I’m boring. Just a small-town girl making a living.”
We play this game of cat and mouse. I pull away, he finds me once again. This is unlike anything I know. This is something Phoebe would do. Not me. I’m the rational one. Rational Milana would never go to a stranger’s house, let alone drink three glasses of wine while there.
Yes, a third may have made its way into my hand.
“A small-town girl inside my living room… how very dangerous.”
He’s found me again, cornering me across the other side of the room. This time, he leaves nothing to chance, our bodies almost touching, making me very uncomfortable. I don’t want him to see me so vulnerable.
But I cave.
To this lust overcoming me.
“For me…” I watch him, controlling my breathing. “Or you?”
The tip of his finger graciously slides against my hand, rising slowly up my arm until he settles in the middle of my collarbone. I struggle to tame the thump of my heart and hide the way my body is reacting. His response hangs in suspense, and waiting patiently, only builds this wall of fire between us.
“Stay with me,” he whispers against my ear.
“I can’t do that.”
“You will.” He doesn’t say anything else, breathing softly into my hair. “You won’t leave. I know that much.”
I hate the way he does that—makes me feel all these things I shouldn’t even be thinking. He just wants to get m
e into bed, and I’m not that type of girl. I have morals, respect for myself, and a man back home waiting for me.
And then, it all falls apart.
The old me.
Gone, if only for tonight.
I nod, raising my head to meet his lips, watching the depth of his gaze and trying to unravel his intentions. “I’ll stay.”
Chapter Nine
We have spoken for one hour straight about different bodily rashes.
Emerson is adamant that the baby has chickenpox. Her husband, Logan, argues that it’s poison ivy. The poison ivy seems far-fetched, but nevertheless, images were sought after on Google, and my appetite dwindled to nothing after the horrendous pictures I saw.
It’s my first time meeting Logan Carrington. He’s exactly how Emerson described him—stubborn, hot-headed, and gorgeous.
