Page 102 of Fake Shot

But he captures my hand in his, pulling me back to him as he drops his voice so deep it’s practically a growl. “Every time you try to push me away, I’m going to pull you right back. If I’m going to fall, you’re coming down with me.”

A chill runs up my spine as his words sink in, and then my hands are sliding up his chest and my arms are snaking around his neck as I pull him close. “I’m right there with you. I’m sorry I keep pushing you away. I know it’s a defense mechanism, I just don’t know how to stop it.”

“You’ll know.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that you’ll know when you can fully trust me because you won’t feel the need to do it anymore.”

I gaze up at that perfectly sculpted face. “I do trust you, Colt.”

“You’re getting there.” He dips his head and kisses my forehead.

I’m about to tell him that he doesn’t get to decide when I trust him enough. But then he spins us around and shuts the door behind us, pushing me farther down the hallway toward his living room. The view is fucking spectacular.

As I come down the few steps to the sunken living room, which has to be bigger than the entire first floor of my brownstone, I can see the islands of the harbor dotting the water. Beyond them, the horizon is streaked with the same orange and gold as the water, but with pinks and lavenders as well. Because we’re on the Eastern Seaboard, we don’t get true sunsets over the water in Boston. But every once in a while, before it dips below the buildings on the other side of the city, the sun reflects off the water and the sky like this, giving us a textbook-perfect sunset.

“What do you think?” Colt asks, coming up behind me where I’ve stopped in the middle of his living room.

“I still can’t believe this view.”

“I meant about the condo?”

I glance around, and between the steel studs, the foam insulation is neatly cured. The electrical wires and plumbing tubes run exactly where they should. “How can you expect me to talk about work with a view like this?”

His eyes flick toward the windows, then back at me. “The view’s okay.”

“Okay?” I drag out the word. “What the hell are you talking about? How could you be desensitized to a view like this?”

“Trust me, you just get used to it.” He reaches out, pulling me to him like he always does. I love that he can’t seem to keep his hands off me, and always wants me as close as possible. I always thought that I’d hate it if a man were clingy, but with Colt, I love it. Knowing that he could have anyone, and only wants me—it’s the reassurance I didn’t realize I needed. “This view, though,” he says, focusing in on my face, “I can’t get enough of this view.”

I smooth my palm along his jaw, cupping his face. “Good. You’ll need to get your fill tonight, though, because after the game tomorrow, I won’t see you for almost four days. Not that I’m counting,” I add hastily.

“Clearly.”

“I don’t like feeling this way.”

“What way’s that?” he asks, amusement tinging his words.

“I hate the ups and downs—being thrilled to see you when you’re here, and then missing you like crazy when you’re gone. It’s too much.”

“There’s no such thing as too much, Tink. You can never be too excited to see me, or miss me too much when I’m not here.”

“But I don’t want to feel all those emotions,” I tell him. Life was simpler when I got up every day, worked my job, mentored a few women, spoiled my immediate family, and occasionally made some beautiful lingerie, and then went to sleep to do it all again in the morning.

“More things to talk about in therapy, it sounds like.”

“Yeah, I promise I won’t cancel this weekend’s meeting,” I assure him.

“Good. Okay, so can you take a quick look around, let me know what you think of everything so I can give them the go ahead to put the walls up tomorrow?”

“Sure.” As I walk the perimeter of the large space, looking at things the way I know an inspector would, it occurs to me that if they’re putting walls up tomorrow, the inspector must already have signed off on everything.

When I ask him why he’s having me look at it in that case, he just shrugs and says, “I want to make sure it’s done right,and I know you’d never accept anything less than the best work.”

“Everything looks good,” I say, crossing the room to where he stands, waiting for me near the sliding glass doors.

He takes my hand, leading me out to the large and incredibly private balcony. Full walls on both sides prevent you from seeing onto any neighbor’s balcony. It’s a full-on outdoor room out here, and the only view is directly out beyond the glass half-wall, toward the ocean.

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