Page 88 of Rules Of Engagement: St. Louis
“I don’t know. Can you meet me?”
“Say when.”
“Now. At our place.”
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
I was already at the house when Christian arrived, sitting on the couch in the living room with my hands folded in my lap like a nervous teenager. I heard his key in the lock and listened to his footsteps on the hardwood floor.
“Naomi?” His voice echoed through the house.
“In here.”
He appeared in the doorway, still in dark jeans and a black t-shirt, and he looked good enough to eat.
“Sorry for interrupting your night,” I said, standing up. “I know this isn’t one of our days.”
“You didn’t interrupt anything important.” He moved close enough that I could smell his cologne. “What’s going on?”
“I’ve been thinking.”
He watched me intently for a long moment, and when I didn’t say anything else, he spoke.
“About?”
“About us. About what this is.” I gestured between us. “I need to know what you think about me. About us. Together.”
Christian was quiet for a long moment, his dark eyes studying my face. “You want the truth?”
“I want the truth.”
“I think about you every day. When I’m sitting in traffic, in the office, or lying in bed at night. I hear your laugh and daydream about you scrunching your nose when I put too much lime on your food,” he chuckled. “The memory of you lives in my mind. Even when I sleep, I dream of you.” He sighed. “Is this the part where you tell me it’s too much for you and I’m out of line?”
My heart was beating so fast I was sure he could see it through my shirt.
“I think about taking you back to Italy and teaching you to make pasta from scratch. I think about waking up next to you every morning instead of just on Wednesdays and Saturdays. I think about having the right to hold your hand in public and tell other men to back off when they flirt with you.”
My head was spinning.
“I think these rules we made are killing both of us, or at least they are killing me.”
The silence stretched between us as we stared at one another.
“Is that why you asked me to come here? To find out how I feel about us?”
“Partly.” I glanced around nervously.
“You don’t have to be anxious,” he said. “I’m on whatever you’re on, even if it kills me, obviously.”
He smirked, but my throat clogged as I was filled with emotion.
“I think,” I said slowly, “that I’m terrified of wanting something this much again.”
He stared at me. “You already have me.”
“Not really. I have parts of you, but I want more. I want us.”
His eyes closed, then reopened. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to hear that from you. And you don’t have to be afraid.”
