“What? How?”
He lifts a shoulder. “You were just there in the lobby, looking so fucking sexy but being so cold. It felt like you were taunting me. I wanted you and I couldn’t have you.”
“I wanted you too.” I glance away, feeling my cheeks color as I add, “I started writing my romance novel after that night.”
He gives another grunt. “Fuck, Alex. We should have just gotten together then.”
“Yeah. We’ve wasted a lot of time, haven’t we?”
He strokes his beard, thinking, then says, “No. I’m glad we did this the long way. Because we didn’t rush into something before we were ready. I’ve done that before and it never works out.” He repositions himself to gaze at me. “You’re not like most of the women I’ve met. A lot of the women in New York are—” He cuts himself off with a heavy exhalation. “Look, I know not all women are like this, but it just feels like the ones I’ve been meeting lately are man-eaters. They have these insanely high standards and they want perfection. They treat dating like a sport and everything is so fake. It’s exhausting.”
I think of Cat and her dating spree the past few months: the way she compared it to a job interview and the amount of work she puts into looking and behaving a certain way when she goes on a date. I guess he’s not wrong.
“But you—you’re just yourself and you don’t try to impress me. You’re so caring, so sweet. You see the good in the world, you’re optimistic and hopeful.” His eyes are tender, lit with affection. “I know those are the things you don’t like about yourself, but they’re the things that make you who you are.”
Warmth rushes along my skin, down my limbs, sinking into my bones. I think of Christmas Day in his kitchen, when he held me and made me feel understood, and I realize I feel the same way now. I always do around him.
“And I’m sorry I was such a jerk earlier,” he adds quietly. “After Christmas, I felt so connected to you. And then on New Year’s… I don’t know. You’ve been so hot and cold with me. It felt like you were playing games and I am so over that shit. I’m not going to do that.”
“Oh,” I murmur. “I’d never thought of it like that. Shit, I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to play games.”
“I know.” He takes my hand, sliding his fingers between mine and squeezing. “It’s okay, I know. That’s not who you are.”
“It’s not. I could never do that to you, Michael. You’re such a good guy. When I’m with you I just feel like myself. You listen to me and I feel like… I don’t know. You understand me and accept me in a way that no one else does.” I pause, then add, “And you’re a great dad. I know you worry that you’re not, but you are.”
He gazes at me with a sad smile and I wonder when someone last said these things to him. He needs someone to tell him he’s a good guy and a good dad. I feel a sting in my heart at the thought that maybe he’s been a bit lonely. I don’t ever want him to feel that again.
Regret seeps into me as I think about the past couple of months, the time I’ve let slip away. “I’m the one who should be saying sorry. I shouldn’t have fought this so hard.”
He raises my hand to his lips and kisses the back of it. “It’s okay. I know you had your reasons.”
I look down at our hands with a sigh. “Yeah,” I mumble, wondering how to explain that after Travis dumped me, I was beginning to believe the problem wasn’t men—it was me. I always find it too easy to imagine—or hope for—things that aren’t there. I still feel like I can’t quite trust my ability to distinguish between reality and fantasy.
But when I look at myself through Michael’s eyes, I see things differently. I see myself the way he sees me—and that’s why it feels like this time, it’s different. I really want to trust that feeling.
Still, I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t another thought nagging at me. Because if I’m not careful, I could lose the writing career I’ve only just started to build—the thing I’ve dreamed of my whole life, the thing I gave up on back home, the thing my parents have told me over and over is not going to happen. Since I’ve been writing, I’ve rediscovered my passion and it’s helped me find a sense of inner strength I didn’t know I had. And I can’t lose that now.
That thought scares me more than anything.
35
I don’t want to think about that now.
I push all thoughts of my writing from my head, tracing my fingertip through the patch of hair on Michael’s chest. The feel of his warm skin beside me, the smell of him filling my lungs… There’s a flutter between my legs as my eyes track up and down his body. Is it crazy that I want him again, so soon?
He shuffles up the bed slightly so he’s sitting back against the headboard, then reaches for me, and there’s a zing of anticipation down my center.
Maybe it’s not just me.
Feeling bold, I turn and swing one leg over him, straddling him. He slides his hands around my waist and onto my back, and I tilt my head down, pressing my mouth to his. His tongue is the
