Page 101 of Drawn Together
My fingers raise to his mask and lift it so it rests on his hair, allowing me to take in all of him. I unveil every freckle, hair, dimple, curved nostril, eyelashes—all of it. I don’t want to miss out on a single part of him right here, right now.
“Flora, I could spend every hour I have left searching for the right letters to draw together to make up some word for how I feel about you, and I’d still never find it.”
I suck in a breath. “I think…me too.”
“Every time I tried to find a reason to convince myself that I didn’t like you, you’d come right back and do something new to make me fall all over again. It’s rather rude of you, actually.” He laughs, and the vibrations against my skin sound like home. “To fit into my life before I was ready for you. And when I’m upset about my feelings for you, I want to call you. You know how messed up that is?”
I nod feverishly. “I know exactly how messed up it is.” Because, even if I went to Lennon or Sloane or anyone else out there about what we have right here, I know they could only understand a third-person perspective.
I lift on my toes to kiss him, and he pulls back, covering my mouth with his hand. “I need a few weeks.”
“Bah—” I lick his palm so he’ll move it, but it doesn’t deter the man, so I pull back so I can shout, “A few weeks?”
He smiles down at me. “I’ve got plans. Ones that I’m not willing to rush with you.”
“I feel like if we found a dusty corner to make out in, it wouldn’t really rush things that much.”
“Speak for yourself. I know exactly what I’m up against here.” He rubs his chest and takes in my dress one more time, from my feet up to my chest. “Look, I feel like I get one chance at this.”
“I can give you at least three chances—”
He narrows his eyes at me, and I know exactly what he means. Not this, as in this moment, but this, as in this entire thing we have here.
“I want to make it right from the start. And that means I have to take care of some…stuff first.”
“Stuff?”
“Yes.”
“Want to be more specific?”
He laughs. “Not particularly.”
“What exactly are we taking care of?”
“It’s just me handling it all. You’re perfect just as you are. Don’t change a thing.”
“Well,” my fingers trail across his throat and I watch him swallow, “maybe not. If we put our heads together, surely we can knock this thing out in what, an hour? Then meet back up, kick everyone out, and parlay.”
“Parlay?” He giggles. Giggles.
What in the world could he possibly have to take care of for us to be…whatever we want to be?
Is there someone else? The thought of any woman out there being near him and touching him and kissing him—the thought of a ‘let me go talk to her real quick and get right back to you so we can be together without guilt’ talk—the thought of being a Michelle. All of it twists and pulls at my stomach.
Fletcher must notice, because he pulls back, fingers encompassing my wrist.
“Hey, what’s wrong?”
“The thing you have to do…is it, I mean, are you like—”
“Whatever you’re thinking, say it all. Ask it all. I’ll answer anything you ask me.”
“Is there, gosh this feels so weird.”
“Keep going.” His thumb presses into my pulse point, as if pushing his will through my veins all the way to my brain. And I guess it works, because I just blurt it right out.
“Is there another woman? Do you have a secret girlfriend or something? A marriage of convenience wife so you can both mutually benefit a large trust fund?”
