Page 57 of Beyond Question

“Well,” she says, accepting the empty wine glass and holding it up so I can pour her some rosé. “You’re always full of surprises. And turnabout is fair play.”

I flash her my biggest smile, the one that makes her weak in the knees. “My girl does love to play.”

But we don’tplay, not for the rest of the night.

We eat and laugh and drink. We flirt. I kiss her a few more times.

But we don’tplaylike we both want to.

Sometimes, dancing around it can be almost as fun.

Chapter Nineteen

Paige

From a wild and far more entertaining first date than I expected on Friday night, to a mostly tame, quiet night at Travis’ home on Saturday, my weekend was spent letting Travis in. Literally and figuratively. The man meant what he said about kissing me, and the two of us should win awards for our restraint.

I’m sure he was right to suggest taking things slowly, as this is new to both of us, but each time he’s close, each time his body wraps around mine or our lips meet, that idea seems to get pushed further away and harder to grasp.

Why are we taking things slowly again? I’ve robbed myself of a man like Travis for so long, I kind of want to just jump in.

No, no, he’s right. I know he is.

Slow and steady.

The man continues to surprise me, and now, one week into this… whatever it is… I’m dangerously close to what I think might be happiness.

But I don’t dare name this feeling. I’ve spent so long running from anything even remotely selfish, that letting go of my walls is terrifying.

But he stands there at the gate with his pick ax and hammer and doesn’t give up, and let me tell you, these walls are crumbling.

He’s been out of town since Sunday, and I hate that I barely know this man but I miss him so strongly. Our conversations each day are limited to text messages because he’s attending a conference and has very little free time, but each night, we spendhours talking on the phone like teenagers. I’m losing sleep for this man and, honestly, I couldn’t be happier.

On Monday, Travis had an assortment of churros delivered to my office accompanied by a cheesy text that was timed perfectly with the delivery and said ‘Sweets for my sweet’—which I promptly responded to with a YouTube link to the old horror movieCandyman.

On Tuesday, he sent a disgustingly large bouquet of multicolored tulips, and I pretended to be allergic to them—which he didn’t believe for a second, though he did use that opportunity to tell me how much he loves the way I keep trying to push him away. Because it’sadorableor something along those lines. I informed him that I could buy my own flowers and he swiftly sent me a Spotify link that opened up to a Miley Cyrus song.

On Wednesday, he sent me a small box, hand delivered by courier. Opening the lid triggered a song to start, and even before the first words of the song, I recognized a tinny rendition of Frank Sinatra’s “New York, New York”—and promptly slammed the box shut, tucked it into the bottom, right hand drawer of my desk, and swore to never open it again.

By Thursday, I admitted to myself—and my pest of an editing director—that Travis Wilder has me absolutelysmitten.

By Friday, I finally accept that this man is in my life and has no intention of leaving anytime soon.

And I really,reallylike that idea.

More than I should, no doubt.

Travis is out of town for the next few days, and even though I haven’t physically seen him since our first official date last Friday night, knowing he’s on the opposite side of the country somehow has me missing him even more.

The chaos of that first week after the awards ceremony has died down a bit, and now that I can breathe again, my fear ofbeing found has subsided. I think my past would have reared its ugly head by now if news of my speech had reached across the pond.

Unless that monster is dead… in which case, maybe Icouldtruly breathe again.

But I don’t dare look him up. A man like that would have alerts on his name, no doubt, and I can’t give him any means with which to figure out my whereabouts.

Which made that little stunt I pulled at the Annual Quill Awards especially careless.

But I think we’re okay. News rotates daily, hourly, sometimes even by the minute. As soon as something else happened in New York City, I became yesterday’s news—and thank God for that.

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