Page 56 of Healing Hearts
That’s the reasonable, rational way to look at the situation, but I know that’s not Trent. He’s all raw emotions and gut feelings.
“It wouldn’t bother you for him to put me in that role?” he asks, finally.
“My only concern is that, no matter what happens between us, you don’t disappear on him. He’s lost Omar, and he’s lost my dad. I’d never forgive myself if I put another man in his path that got ripped away.” And I think, in some ways, that’s also been my problem with dating. When I know I might bring a man into our lives who won’t stay, it’s hard to commit.
“I won’t disappear on him,” he says, and his voice is rough with emotion. “But I really don’t know that I should be the one guiding him.”
“Your past is in your past, Trent. None of that is happening right now. It’s done. And look what you’ve accomplished since you got out? If you ask me, you’re exactly the kind of person I’d want him to learn from. You’re kind, patient, and you treat others with respect.”
“I’ll trust your judgment, Em. If you think it’s okay, then I think it’s okay too.”
I just wish getting that response was that easy for our potential baby, but maybe it will be by the time I get pregnant and have our child. Maybe by then he’ll have been able to let his past go, tuck it firmly behind him, and embrace the notion that he’s changed. That he can be a good person who once made some bad choices.
“Brace yourself then,” I say with a small smile. “I have no idea what he has planned.”
“I consider myself warned.” A hint of an answering smile touches Trent’s lips.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Trent
Before I knew what it was like to sleep with Emily, I never had to worry about my behavior around her. Casual touches and close proximity made me think dirty thoughts, but I had those under control—mostly. None of it was ever going to go anywhere, or so I thought.
Now, though, it’s like my whole bodyknowswhen she’s in a room, when she’s close enough for me to catch a hint of lemon or peaches, and there’s some subconscious part of me that’s become aware of the rhythm of her, beyond the calendar and her technical cycle.
Some nights, I can tell when she’s feelingmea little too much. Most of the time, I work really hard to ignore any impulse to push her buttons. I know I could, but doing that is wrong.
Right?
Except, sometimes wrong feels a little too good. That’s always been my problem.
So when I get home from the gym a week before anything physical should happen between us, I notice how she movesthrough the kitchen, tidying up, as though she’s also hyperaware of me, where I am, what I’m doing.
And I should let that sensation go. That’s the responsible thing to do. She doesn’t want things to get out of hand between us, and I want us to be able to return to friends once my duty is done.
Or I think I do.
I will admit to myself, usually when I’ve had a drink or two, that the idea of thisnotending when my duty is done isn’t out of the question. At least for me. On those rare days when it feels like what I did in this town is fading into the past, being buried in people’s memories, the idea of keeping Emily is more appealing than it should be.
No matter what happens, I definitely get I should be savoring what we have right now. Emily Sullivan ismine.
And I swear to god, or all the aliens in outer space, Emily’s sundresses were put on this planet to torture me. When she’s in sweats, I can almost pretend we’re just friends, but when she’s still wearing one of the dresses she wore to show a house or film a promo, I hold on to my sanity by a thread.
Not only is she wearing a dress tonight, she’s wearing my favorite yellow one with these little purple flowers on it. I don’t know how she wears it for work because it barely reaches mid-thigh, and it’s a wispy material, the kind that would be soft and silky to the touch.
The air around us has heated, in a way I normally only let it when I know it’s go-time, but I don’t feel like fighting it tonight.
In fact, I might be feeling a little bit of an urge to break the rules.
“There’s food in the fridge, if you want it.” She’s at the sink doing the last of the dishes from dinner, I presume.
“I’m definitely hungry.” I let my gaze drag over her, not hiding what I’m thinking about eating at all.
A flush rises to her chest and into her cheeks. “Help yourself,” she says.
Instead of going to the fridge, I approach her at the sink, and I trail my fingers along her exposed leg, stopping at the hem of her dress, and then I put my palm on her hip, kiss her on the temple.
“I’ll definitely help myself,” I say.
