Page 56 of Rules Of Engagement: St. Louis
I wrestled with anger, wishing I could protect her from her past.
“It didn’t work. Nothing I did ever worked. So I filed for divorce, and now he calls me every few months with some sob story about why he needs money or why we should get back together.”
I turned her in my arms, needing to see her face. Her cheeks were wet with tears.
“None of that was your fault. Not his cheating, not his failures, not his inability to be the man you deserved.”
“I know that here,” she tapped her temple. “But here,” she pressed her hand to her heart, “it’s harder to believe.”
“That’s why you have the rules.”
She didn’t respond, only stared at me.
“It keeps you safe,” I continued as revelation settled over me.
I studied her face in the moonlight, seeing vulnerability there that she’d never let me see before.
“He’s not every man, Naomi. What he did to you, that’s not love. That’s not what this is between you and I.”
She stared at me with those dark eyes that had captivated me from the first moment I saw her. “What is this, then?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “But I know it’s not what you had with Gerald.”
She sighed, settling back into my arms. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For listening and not trying to fix it or tell me I should be over it.”
I took that as her way of ending the conversation. It was more than I’d gotten out of her before. So I’d take it as progress. We laid there until her breathing evened out and she drifted back to sleep. I stayed awake, holding her, processing everything she’d told me, trying to figure out how I was supposed to pretend this was still just an arrangement when every instinct I had was screaming at me to protect her.
By the time dawn began to lighten the sky outside the French doors, I knew with absolute certainty that our rules were no longer enough for me.
Chapter
Twelve
CHRISTIAN
“Let’s get dirty today.Are you up for it?”
One of Naomi’s eyebrows arched, and a smile ushered up her lips.
“That depends on what kind of dirty you’re talking about, Mr. Valentine.”
I grinned, leaning against the kitchen counter. “Picture it. Mud, forest floors, and ruining those expensive boots you packed.”
“Ah. So not the fun kind of dirty.”
“It can be both?”
She set her cup down with her lips pursed. “What are we doing today?”
“Truffle hunting. Giuseppe’s nephew Luca has the best truffle dogs in the region. He’s meeting us at ten.”
“Truffle hunting.”She looked down at her silk pajamas. “I’m going to need different clothes.”
“Yes, you do. Think camping gear, not boardroom attire.”
