Page 112 of Rebellious

“Bennett?” I haven’t said his name out loud in months. It feels strange and comforting. Inching up the wall, I move the blinds to the side and peer out, a brilliant frown outside of the glass. “What are you doing here?” I ask, inching up the blinds, and pushing up the window.

His enchanting emerald eyes haven’t looked away from my face. It’s almost as if he can’t believe we’re really together. “It’s Wednesday. I told you I would cook dinner.”

The texts.

He passes me a cooler through the window, and I take a step back, watching as his big body squeezes through.

When he’s settled in my bedroom, I give him a once-over, taking in his t-shirt and jeans. I arch a brow like I haven’t been away from him for four months. “You’re saying you cooked?” I jiggle the cooler in my hand.

He smiles bigger and more beautiful than I’ve ever seen and steps up to me, chest to chest. “Would you believe I gave up football in favor of baking?”

Gah, my heart can’t take him this close, with a smile I have only seen in my dreams, and he smells… like soap and bread—all things I love dearly.

“Aspen,” he prods, stepping back and closing the window. “Can you hear me?”

I shake my head. “You didn’t answer my question.”

He hums, stepping to me, taking the cooler from my hand and placing it on my bed.

“Make yourself at home,” I say, my sarcasm coming back through the shock.

“Thanks.” He says, taking a seat on my bed and pushing back to the headboard like he’s settling in for a glass of cognac and a cigar.

My eyes narrow as I walk to the nightstand closest to him and lean against the wood for support. No way am I sitting. I have a feeling this conversation is not one I’m going to sit still for. When I’m settled with my arms crossed and a pointed gaze trained on Bennett, I try again. “What are you doing here, Jameson?”

His lip twitches, but not because he’s mad. Instead, he’s fighting off a grin. “I told you I was coming for you.”

I rear back. “I do not recall ever receiving that message.”

He shrugs. “You never have listened well. I told you, I would always come for you.”

“That’s it.” I lean forward, ready to throw him out when he stands, his chest pushing against mine. His eyes find mine while his hand goes around to his back pocket and pulls out a folded piece of paper.

He holds it up between us. “Take it.”

I’m not sure just what in the fresh hell is going on here, but I’m curious, plucking the document from his hand and unfolding it.

In black ink, my logo stares back at me. “I don’t understand.” I also can’t focus enough to read what I already know is there. It’s my representation contract. The same one I sat down and wrote with Thad.

Bennett stares at me blankly. “I need an agent.”

“And…”

He needed one a year ago. I had agreed to do it, but that was then—before everything went to shit.

“And I want you.” He acts like we haven’t been apart this whole time—like our entire relationship didn’t crumble in front of our eyes, mere months ago.

“Bennett,” I say, laying the contract on the nightstand. “I don’t think I’m the right agent for you anymore.”

He takes a marker from his pocket and holds it up. “I disagree.”

“Of course you do. Bennett—”

He puts a finger to my lips. “Name your terms.”

Name my terms… “Did you take a hit to the head?” What the hell is going on?

He shakes his head. “I’ve given you four months,” he drawls, his southern accent thicker. “I’ve stayed away as you asked.”

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