Page 8 of Big and Grumpy
"That doesn't sound like too much to ask for," she says gently.
I look at her. "I'm not easy to be around, Marigold. I'm moody and antisocial and I've got more baggage than a cross-country flight."
"So do I," she says simply. "And I happen to like moody and antisocial. It's honest."
She's looking at me like I'm something precious instead of something broken, and the feeling is so foreign I don't know what to do with it. The wine and the firelight and the sound of rain against the windows are creating a cocoon of intimacy that's making it hard to remember why I've been keeping my distance.
"Marigold," I say, her name a warning.
"What?"
"We should probably talk about what's happening here."
"What is happening here?"
I lean forward. "You know what."
She doesn't back away. If anything, she leans closer. "Maybe I want to hear you say it."
"I want you," I say simply. "Have since the first day you showed up on my porch with those damn cookies. But I'm not good at this, and I don't want to hurt you."
"What makes you think you'll hurt me?"
"Because I hurt everyone eventually. It's what I do."
The pain in my voice seems to break something in her expression. She reaches up and cups my face, forcing me to meet her eyes. "You're not going to hurt me, Holt. And you know how I know that?"
"How?"
"Because you care too much. A man who didn't care wouldn't worry about hurting someone." She strokes her thumb across my cheekbone, and the gentle touch undoes me completely. "A man who didn't care wouldn't spend three days fixing a stranger's roof."
"You're not a stranger anymore."
"No," she agrees softly. "I'm not."
When I kiss her, it's with the desperate hunger of a man who's been starving without realizing it. She tastes like wine and promise, and when she sighs into my mouth and melts against me, I feel like I'm drowning in the best possible way.
five
Marigold
Thekissbreakssomethingloose inside both of us, some carefully constructed wall we've been hiding behind. Holt tastes like wine and possibility, and when his hands tangle in my hair, I feel like I'm flying and falling at the same time.
"We should slow down," he says against my lips, even as his hands are mapping the curves of my waist.
"Should we?" My voice is breathless, and I'm looking at him with eyes that I know are dark with desire.
"You're staying in my guest room. I don't want you to think I invited you here for this."
"I don't think that." I reach up and trace the line of his jaw with one finger, feeling the slight roughness of stubble. "But I think we both want this."
I'm right, and we both know it. The attraction has been building for weeks, through shared coffee breaks and easy conversations and the thousand small kindnesses we've been trading back and forth.
"Marigold," he says, as a question for what we both know the answer to.
"Yes," I whisper, and that's all the permission he needs.
When Holt lifts me easily from the couch, I feel like I'm flying. He carries me to his bedroom with sure steps, and I'm struck by how right this feels—being in his arms, in his space, finally giving in to what we've both been fighting.
