Page 96 of Make You Love Me
He’s speechless while his eyes roam over me. As he finds his words, I lift the front slightly, proving the dress is the only fabric on my body.
“In case you get any ideas later,” I say, referring to his promise the last time he asked me to wear this dress, and watch his Adam’s apple bob with a rigid swallow.
“I have plenty of ideas right now.”
He reaches for the towel tied around his waist, and my hands fly up.
“Don’t you dare. We have somewhere to be, and we’ll never make it in this traffic if we get sidetracked.”
“Promise me we’ll find somewhere private tonight. I doubt I’ll be able to wait until we get back to have you.”
“Why do you think I chose this dress?”
“I can’t think with you looking like that.” His voice is gravely and deep with want. “Tell me.”
“I’m wearing it because it’s your favorite,” I say, inching closer. “And I loved what you did to me the last time I put it on.”
A smug smile tugs at his lips. “Ahh. Outside. Behind the bar. I’ll never forget it.”
“I expect the same treatment tonight…just a little classier, given the circumstances.”
“Honey,” he begins, leaning on the dresser. “You keep your eyes trained on me like I’m dessert, and you can have whatever you want.”
He shifts to his suitcase nearby to collect the items he needs to dress. The muscles in his back bulge and ripple as he moves, making my skin prickle with desire. But it’s not only his body that makes me giddy. It’s him—his heart, sweet charm, tenderness, and ability to know what I need before I do. He lovesme and all my maddening flaws and stubborn scars. With him, I’m a better person and whole for the first time.
“Jordan?”
“Yeah?” he says absently, and I wait for his eyes to find me.
“Just so we’re clear…all I want is you.”
???
Saturday night traffic uptown got us to the show forty minutes after opening. We tipped the cab driver double since he delivered us to the Whitney Museum’s door instead of a block down the street and didn’t complain about the extra time it took to get the wheelchair in and out of the trunk. Jordan claims it’s because the driver got a show each time I lifted the chair in my dress.
“Whatever works,” I joke, jabbing the elevator’s up button more times than necessary.
“I’m having a hard time keeping my eyes off you, too.” He reaches for my hand and kisses the top as the elevator door opens.
I follow him inside, and as a few others pile in and gather behind us, I lean down to his ear to whisper, “Ditto. You in this suit makes my knees weak.”
His sleek black pants fit over the cast without swallowing the rest of him. The gray blazer over a white button-down shirt accentuates his masculine frame. His dog tags sit proudly over a matching black tie, and his dark blond hair, long enough to curl at the ends now, is combed back off his forehead.
“Good to know. I’ll try not to wrinkle it when I f—”
The door opens, and Josie’s squeal reverberates off the stone floor and the stark white walls of the long corridor leading to the showroom. She was standing near a sculpture a few steps away, talking to a tall man with salt and pepper hair and rings onmultiple fingers when she saw us. After saying something to the gentleman, she takes tiny, hurried steps in our direction, moving as fast as she can in her ankle-length, fitted, black dress and four-inch heels.
“You came.” She lunges into Jordan’s awaiting arms.
Seeing them together, after all that’s happened over the last week and a half, warms my soul. They will always have each other, and even though it’s just the two of them, he has family he can count on. There’s very little in this world better than that.
“Surprise,” Jordan says, retaining her hand as she straightens.
While they catch up, I take a few minutes to appreciate the woman before me. She doesn’t look like the carefree, eclectic artist I met in Richmond. She’s beyond stunning. Grant has outdone himself, flawlessly styling her from the sparkling diamond clip in her perfect spiral curls to the bright red nail polish on her toes. She’s ready for the runway, media interview, or an upscale art exhibit in New York City.
She soon notices my hand on Jordan’s shoulder, and the blue eyes that match his trail up my arm and meet my gaze. There’s a trace of trepidation in her expression, but for Jordan’s sake, she masks it with her usual bubbliness.
“Nice to see you, Nora,” she says, stepping around the wheelchair to wrap me in a delicate hug. “You look…”
