Page 82 of Only and Forever

“Stop spying on me, Bergman.”

His grin widens. “Not spying. Just watching... trying to figure out what you’re thinking.”

I hold his eyes. “I was thinking you’re beautiful. That your body is perfect.”

His grin slips a little. Our eyes hold. His grip on me tightens. Mine tightens on his arm, too.

We are on the precipice of something I promised myself we wouldn’t cross over before I was honest, before I told him how I feel about trying to be someone who lives beyond her tightly secured walls and ideology—scared, curious, inexperienced.

I have to put the brakes on where we’re headed, because I need this first—this safe, caring touch, this comfort with him. Our gazes still hold in the TV reflection. An idea takes hold.

Viggo tips his head. “What is it?”

“Want to... watch a movie?”

His brow furrows. I’ve surprised him. But then he gives me another sweet, soft smile. “I’d love that.”

—

One movie down—my choice. One to go—his.

“Rest in peace, Heath,” Viggo says, as the end credits ofA Knight’s Talestart to roll. I lift my mason jar of water in solemn agreement, then tip it back for a long drink.

“Heath was a great actor,” I tell him.

Viggo nods. “Brilliant. Man, I love that movie.”

I smile. “One of my favorites ever.”

“Why do you like it so much?” he asks, peering down at me.

I frown in thought. “Because... it’s about reaching for a life beyond what you’ve been born into, about how hard it is, not just to reach that place, but believe in yourself as you try. Plus the fun anachronisms—old clothes, modern music and dance—and of course, Heath Ledger and Shannyn Sossamon are great eye candy.”

“Those two, their characters have a cute little romantic subplot,” Viggo says, eyebrows wiggling.

I glare up at him playfully. “Emphasis onsubplot.”

“Just for that, I’m making you watch the sweetest, romanciest flick I’ve ever seen.”

I let out an exaggerated groan.

“You heard me.” He pats my hip in a way that makes me wish it was about twice as hard and right on my ass. I try to ignore that, bring myself back to where I’ve been the past two hours—cuddling, safe, unsexual closeness. “Make some popcorn,” he says, “then get back here and get ready to cry.”

“Youmake the popcorn. I can’t reach it.”

He tips his head as he peers down at me, then gently taps the end of my nose. “With the new stepstool in the kitchen you can.”

“Since when is there a stepstool in the kitchen?”

“Since this afternoon.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “You built me a stepstool.”

His cheeks pink a little bit. “Who says I built it?” He scratches behind his ear. “I could have run to IKEA.”

“When? After midnight, when I finally heard you go to bed, and before eight a.m., when I woke up to you making coffee? We’ve been together all day since then.”

He smiles sheepishly. “I chipped away at it over the past few weeks. Couldn’t sleep two nights ago. That’s when I finished the varnish. It’s dry now.”

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