Page 154 of Blind Prophet

“You’re mine.”

I’ve always been his. And always will be.

CHAPTER39

CAROLINE

I stretch in bed, luxuriating in the warmth, the spent feeling in my muscles, and the faint scent of coffee. Light streams through the seams in the closed white plantation shutters, and the high-pitched melody of chirping birds seeps through the walls.

Footsteps approach, a soft thud telling me he’s barefoot. The door eases open, and there he is: my husband, bare-chested in low-slung pajama bottoms, holding two steaming coffee mugs. His hair is tousled from sleep, eyes still carrying that vulnerable softness from our night together. Surreal, but not a dream.

“You found my coffee machine.”

“You like coffee when you wake. I made some.” He shrugs like it’s nothing. “Your refrigerator is sparse, though. Reminds me of mine back in college. We’ll need to head out for breakfast.”

“We don’t all have a staff to shop for us and keep the refrigerator stocked.” I don’t add the part about a chef to stock fresh, easy-to-heat meals.

“Well, you could if you wanted.” The mattress sinks with his weight, and I push up, positioning the pillows behind my back so I can better accept the coffee. After I take the mug, his free hand immediately falls to my thigh, covered by sheets and a light coverlet, yet his warmth still penetrates my skin. “My place in Montecito isn’t far away. But I like your place, too.”

“You like my house?” I mean, I like my home. It’s a restored cottage close to a walkable district filled with cafés and boutique shops. “The rooms are smaller than your closets.”

“I like the feel of this place. It feels like you.” He eyes me over the rim of his mug. I watch his throat as he swallows. “It feels like home.”

“It almost feels like you’re asking to move in with me.”

“I know you want to go slow, but technically, we’re still married. We’re sleeping together.” He looks pointedly at me.

He’s right. And if I get my way, we’ll have countless repeats of last night.

“My work requires travel. You won’t have to put up with me all the time.”

“You say that like it’s a good thing.” I’m mocking him with my tone, but I understand what he’s saying. When we grew apart before, his travel was partially to blame. The media frenzy made my career impractical. I still remember the isolation I experienced when all of my friends were busy during the day, pursuing their dreams, and I was stuck in our Manhattan townhouse, fearing photographers if I dared to leave.

The memory is enough for me to restate a point I’ve already made this week. “I’m not giving up my job.”

“I wouldn’t want you to.” He stands and cracks open the shutters, peering out at what can only be the bushes separating my lot from my neighbors. “If you like the work you’re doing, you could consider opening your own firm. You don’t need to be an employee.”

“Why would I want to do that?”

“Why wouldn’t you?”

“We aren’t all entrepreneurs.”

“If you wanted. I’m not pushing you. I’m mentioning the possibilities.”

“Speaking of possibilities, you know, you could still change your mind on a political future.” I’d absolutely hate it, but it is a possibility. If he were to choose to run, he’d need to begin work on a campaign immediately. “There’s been so much attention on the bigger events at play…your connection has been lost. None of the headlines mentions your name. Or your father’s, for that matter.”

His eyes narrow, and he returns to the bed.

“No.”

“You could do good. You won’t be beholden to anyone. If deals were struck to get you into consideration for chief of staff, you didn’t strike the deals. You don’t need to honor them.”

“The chief of staff door closed. You know that. And I wouldn’t change it if I could. Caroline, more than anything, I want you back in my life. And you don’t care for DC. Or for the paparazzi or for the security detail I would force on you.”

“I don’t want you to give up a potential presidential run for me. It’s a chance to follow in your uncle’s footsteps and to refurbish the Moore legacy.”

“Technically, I’m not giving anything up. The path was a pipedream and one that was never guaranteed.”

---