Page 84 of All We Need

Booth groans dramatically and rolls onto his stomach.Thesprings bounce as he punches the mattress. “How?Howare you sexier in my clothes than in your underwear?”

“Behave, or you’ll have both hands out of action,”Ireprimand.Pullingback the sheets,Iclimb in beside him and fluff up my pillows.

Booth pauses his tantrum to flip a switch by his head, leaving the bedside lamp to cast the room in a warm orange glow.Whenhe twists toward me, my stomach clenches at the intimacy of it all.

“So, sleep?”Iask abruptly.

He shakes his head and shuffles closer until his pelvis brushes my hip. “Liewith me.”

I inhale deeply, then roll to my side.Butterflieserupt in mybelly, the stupid little insects fluttering around even more when he cups my cheek and flashes me a crooked grin.

“Tell me something no one else knows?” he says in a hushed tone.

Alarm bells go off.Noteven one hour in and he’s already pushing the boundaries of this arrangement.Ican’t understand his need to get to know me.He’sno longer the enemy, but sharing parts of myselfIcarefully keep under lock and key doesn’t come easily.

He senses my trepidation. “I’llgo first then.”Hishand slinks to my nape, thumb running in circles below my ear. “Iwas a baby whenGeorgeand my dad opened the restaurant.Accordingto my mom,Florence,Harriet, andItook our first steps right next to the driftwood bar our fathers spent a week building.Wedid our homework in the office, had family dinners after hours, and took prom photos on the restaurant floor.Soit’s no wonderIdecided on a career in hospitality.”

I listen closely, at the way his voice rasps slightly at the mention of his father.Myhand drifts to his chest, andImindlessly trace shapes over his smooth skin.

“WhenIwas thirteen,Gloria, our previous head chef, let me shadow her on a slowMondayafternoon.Fromthat day forward,Iwas hooked.Ibegged for cookbooks thatChristmas, started working as a dishwasher whenIwas old enough, and tried my hand at anything and everything.Ifit was edible,Iwanted to cook with it.Tome, being a chef wasn’t a career, it was my passion, somethingIspent my youth fantasizing over…”

“But?”

Remorse sweeps over his face like a dark shadow at my question.

“My fantasies didn’t involve me working in my family’s restaurant.Iwanted to travel.Touse ingredients from all corners of the world.Toshoot my shot inMichelinstar restaurantssoIcould sayItried.OurPlacewas always going to be a stepping-stone in my career, but it wasn’t supposed to be permanent.”

“What’s stopping you from pursuing those dreams?”

He smiles sadly. “Mydad passed unexpectedly.Freakaccident.Hisdeath left a crater-size hole in my family and as the grief lessened,IrealizedIcouldn’t abandon his legacy.Healways told me how proud he was to see me behind the pass he helped install and to hear the gushing reviews from customers when they tried my food.Turningmy back on the restaurant would have meant turning my back on his memory.”

My fingers splay over his heart, eyes not wavering asIstare at him. “Whatdid your dad think of your dreams?”

His heartbeat stutters under my palm.Regretetches deep in his face, lining his mouth and forehead. “Hedidn’t know.Noone does.Noteven my siblings.”

“Booth,”Istart. “Youcan’t believe he wouldn’t have supported you.Nomatter where you worked or moved to.”

His thumb shifts, grazing my bottom lip. “That’snice of you to say, but you don’t know that,Aly.”

I’m speechless.Underneaththe cocky smiles and cunning wit, torment sits below the surface, waiting in the shallows for the tide to change.Hedoes a good job at concealing it.

Something we have in common.

“I love my job.IfeelIshould end with that, considering you’re keeping me employed and all,” he jokes, and at the flip of a switch his pain is gone.

His ability to lay it all out stuns me.Itmakes me want to peel back my veil and share what keeps me up at night.ButifIverbalize it,I’llhave to follow through with my plan, andI’mnot sureIhave the guts for that just yet.Orever.

The sound of his laughter fades when he takes in my expression. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

My hand falls, andIstudy him closely, searching for theulterior motive behind his candor. “Whydid you share that with me?”

Surprise morphs his features. “Well, that’s a good question.”Histongue clicks against the roof of his mouth as he thinks before he lifts a shoulder. “IguessItrust you.”

If anything from this whole evening petrifies me the most, it’s that.Whywould he put his trust in me?There’stoo much weight and pressure held within those words.AresponsibilityIdon’t want to take on.

“You shouldn’t,”Ideclare. “Youdon’t know me.Fiveminutes ago, you hated me.”

He recoils. “I’veneverhatedyou.Iregret how we went about things initially, but you’ve surprised all of us.You’realso right.Idon’t know you, andI’mtrying to change that.”Withthe grip he has on my neck, he tugs me close. “Iwant to know what goes on in that beautiful, stubborn head of yours.Toknow what makes you tick.Yourfavorite foods.Maybeone day you’ll let me cook for you.I’mnot looking for anything serious,Aly—we can both agree on that.Butthat doesn’t meanIdon’t want to soak up every minute we have.Becauseafter you’re gone,Ican say, ‘Imet this incredible woman and for a little while, she was mine.’”

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