Page 41 of Married to Number 22
For a long fucking time.
For her to stop fighting against my hold, to stop avoiding my eyes, to finally just give in and look at me.
“Luns,” I murmur. “Will you just trust me enough to talk to me?”
She’s tense—so fucking tense—but my question has her releasing a shuddering breath. “You know that I trust you,” she finally whispers.
But she doesn’t keep talking.
Doesn’t clue me into what’s creating such turmoil.
“So, why won’t you talk to me?” I ask when long minutes pass without her cluing me in.
“Because it’s a long, fucked-up story.”
I glance around the room then turn back to her with my brows lifted and shrug. “Do I look like I have anywhere more important to be, tiny tornado?”
She stays still and I hold my breath, waiting, hoping, praying to whatever gods exist that she lets me in.
Then she exhales…
And, thank fuck, the words start coming.
“I didn’t want this to touch you,” she whispers. “But I brought it to your doorstep.”
I frown.
But she keeps going. “I knew I shouldn’t go to your condo, knew I shouldn’t have tracked you down in the first place, but I was desperate and thought it was my only option and—” She sighs. “Obviously, I wasn’t thinking clearly.”
“Because you came to my place?” I touch her cheek, try to coax a smile out of her. “I mean, yeah it was the middle of the night, but at least you brought cake.”
Her mouth curves, but it’s an empty gesture.
“No,” she whispers. “Because I thought it was actually something we should do. Because I thought it would fix everything.”
That settles heavy on my amusement, tamping it down. “How, Luns?” I ask. “How can marrying me fix anything?”
She shakes her head, eyes sliding closed. “It doesn’t matter,” she murmurs. “Because it’s not going to happen.”
I leave the second part alone, along with the insane thought that maybe making this woman mine in every way might not be the worst idea—that’s the crazy talking—but anyway, the first is more important right now.
I cup her jaw. “Try that bullshit with someone else, sweetheart.”
“It’s not bull?—”
I turn her head toward me, my eyes locking onto hers. “Then tell me what getting married would fix.”
Her eyes drift away.
“Luns,” I warn.
They come back, the gray depths conflicted, an intense storm raging in her gaze.
But eventually—and fuckingfinally—she answers me,
“Because it will save Grams’s legacy.”
Sixteen
