Page 102 of The Worst Kind of Promise
“This. I want this.”
Kit inclines his head to look at the picture I chose, and it entices a smirk from him. “It’s perfect,” he approves, rubbing his thumb over the curve of my index finger.
And yes, we’re still holding hands. Probably will until we get in the car, only for us to retwine them once we get settled.
“Since it’s so small—and Kit’s one of my favorite clients—it’s on the house,” Rhen says, winking at me.
Hot cinders whirl to life in my chest, the love inside me reaching altitudes and distances that I could never fully imagine. It’s a spectrum of multiple kinds of love, all fused into one, and it always takes me by surprise at how febrile the feeling is. Body-squirming and mind-altering. It’s everlasting—just as permanent as a tattoo.
And when it’s my turn in the chair, I don’t worry about the pain. I don’t even focus on it because Kit’s holding my hand the entire way through.
39
ONE MONTH LATER
FAYE
Ibarely have the energy to make my way past the threshold of my apartment. I’m drained. I was assigned a fifteen-page essay for my literature class, applesauce got spilled on my shirt by one of my students, and the food in my fridge rotted about three days ago.
Actually, food is the last thing I want right now. I’m so nauseous that I doubt I could eat anything.
My feet ache, the waistband of my jeans feels too tight around my stomach, I’m hot as hell, and I’m so tired I can barely keep my eyes open.
Like a zombie with treacle-slow movements, I discard my backpack and shuffle over to my kitchen, hoping that a glass of water might soothe my perpetually itchy throat. Even with autumn on the horizon, I seem to be the only one still living through heat waves—which have yet to be ameliorated given that my air-conditioning stopped working a week ago. Maintenance should be getting to me soon, but there are a lot of students with problems in my apartment complex. Problems of the rodent variety. At least I’m notthatunlucky.
When I round the corner, I’m stunned into silence at the sight of a person in my kitchen. A giant person. A person that definitely isn’t the maintenance guy I was expecting.
Kit stands in front of me with a massive bouquet in one hand and a small box in the other, inducing fear and panic and every emotion in between to stutter the beat of my heart—to drench me in even more sweat.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” I croak out, my eyebrows up to my goddamn hairline.
“It’s nice to see you too,” he mutters, setting the flowers on the counter before closing the space between us with his tempting body. His bergamot cologne—the one I’d drink straight from the bottle—pollutes the air, triggering the reflex at the back of my throat.
Of course I’m happy to see him, but I don’t remember him confirming that he was coming down this weekend. Did I forget? No…I couldn’t possibly.
He gently folds my ear forward, brushing the pad of his finger over the healed crown behind it. A crown tattoo. Because I’m his princess.
“It looks good.”
Speaking of tattoos, Rhen’s been busy working on Kit’s cover-up, having added color to the drawing of my eyes on his forearm. It still feels surreal to see me on a part of Kit. A very visible part. A part that once gave him his NHL nickname and will undoubtedly be a topic of discussion once the season starts.
I pull back slightly, plowing my teeth into my lower lip. “What are you doing here?”
“I know I’m supposed to visit next weekend, but I had to see you. I didn’t want to leave this with a note,” he explains, showing me the navy-blue, velvet box in his palm.
Flowers? Box? Unexpected visit? Oh, God. This seems to be edging into proposal territory.
I hold my hands up to prohibit him from coming any closer. “Whoa, there. Hold your horses, buckaroo. I don’t want to see whatever million-dollar gem is in that box.”
An uptick of his eyebrows. “You think I’m proposing to you?”
“You’re not?”
“I mean, I will eventually, but not this soon,” he says, placing a dramatic hand over his heart. “And I’m offended at your reaction.”
There’s a headache mounting in my skull, like a bunch of miniature spearpoints stabbing at the backs of my eyes. “Sorry, no. I—that’s not what I meant. I just…”
I feel Kit’s hand caress the side of my face, the strokes of his touch interspersed with soft-sounding coos. “Hey, relax. It’s a good surprise, okay? Just open the box.”
