Page 95 of Just The Way You Aren't

"Thank you," she says suddenly, propping herself up to look at me. "For asking. For listening. For not thinking I'm broken because my grandparents were jerks."

"You're the least broken person I know," I tell her honestly. "Though I may need to track down these grandparents and have a word?—"

"They're both dead," she says. "And that's probably for the best. They weren't evil, Damien. Just products of their own upbringings."

"Still."

"Still," she agrees.

I pull her down for another kiss, this one slower, deeper, filled with promises I'm not ready to voice but feel all the same. When we part, her eyes are heavy-lidded, a combination of our day's exhaustion and the emotional conversation.

"Sleep," I tell her. "We can talk more tomorrow."

"Mmm." She nestles against me, her body fitting perfectly alongside mine. "Good night, Damien."

"Good night, Willow."

I hold her as her breathing slows, her body growing heavier against mine as sleep claims her. But I remain awake, staring at the ceiling, absorbing everything she's shared.

It explains so much—her ability to find joy in chaos, her endless patience with others, her default to taking care of everyone but herself. The Willow I met the first day wasn't a random cheerful annoyance; she was a woman who'd learned early that happiness was something you created, not something you waited for.

Looking down at her sleeping form, I'm struck by a certainty so profound it steals my breath: I want to be the man who ensures she never feels scared or lonely or unworthy ever again. I want to show her that she deserves as much care as she gives. I want to build a life where she's as cherished as she is cherishing.

I'm in love with her. Completely, irrevocably in love with Willow Harper.

The realization isn't shocking—in some ways, I think I've known since I first saw her with that damn kitten in the middle of the street. What's terrifying is figuring out how to merge our worlds. How to make room in my ordered, predictable life for her beautiful chaos. How to make sure she never feels like she has to be less to fit into my world.

But as I finally drift toward sleep, her warm body curled trustingly against mine, I know one thing for certain: I'll figure it out. Because a life without Willow Harper isn't a life I want anymore.

CHAPTER 30

WILLOW

Iwake to the unfamiliar sensation of silk sheets against my naked skin and warm, golden sunlight streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows. For a disorienting moment, I forget where I am. Then a strong arm tightens around my waist, and it all comes flooding back—Damien, the fundraiser, the dancing, the incredible night that followed.

The hours upon hours of incredible sex. And the tenderness of the man who not only gave me the night of my life, but also listened to me spill my entire sad childhood to him afterward. The man who made me feel protected and heard. Cherished, even.

He's still asleep, his face softer in repose than I've ever seen it. No furrowed brow, no calculating expression, just Damien. I allow myself a moment to simply look at him, to trace the strong line of his jaw with my eyes, to silently envy his inky dark eyelashes. He's devastatingly handsome, even with bed-rumpled hair and morning stubble. Maybe especially then.

I carefully extract myself from his embrace, curious toexplore his home in the daylight. I pause when I feel the cool weight of something around my neck—the diamond and pearl necklace. I'd completely forgotten I was still wearing it.

As I ease out of bed and carefully unfasten the gems to set them on the nightstand, Damien stirs. "Where are you going?" His voice is deliciously rough with sleep.

"Just looking around," I whisper. "Go back to sleep."

Instead, he rises up on one elbow, eyes traveling appreciatively over my naked body. "I have a better idea. Shower with me."

I have to admit, the thought of a nice hot shower sounds heavenly. So much the better if he’s joining me.

His bathroom is bigger than my entire bedroom at home, all gleaming marble and glass. The shower alone could fit four people comfortably, with multiple showerheads positioned at different heights.

"This is ridiculous," I laugh as Damien adjusts the water temperature. "You could host parties in here."

He smirks and I feel my eyes go wide. “How many other people have you had in here with you at one time?”

"Only one—you," he replies, pulling me under the spray with him, his hands immediately finding my waist.

The hot water cascades over us as he kisses me, slowly and thoroughly. His body is hard against mine, making it clear that morning has brought no diminishment of his desire. His hands slide over my wet skin, leaving trails of heat that have nothing to do with the water temperature.

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