Page 78 of The Bronze Garza
Hands still rubbing together, I turn to him, and find his burning gaze on my bare legs. “Hmm?”
“Can...” He drags his eyes from my legs up to my face. “Can I hold you?”
And there I go, forgetting to breathe again. “H-Hold me how?”
He motions me to come to him.
I do.
Curving one arm around me, he pulls me into his side. My cheek to his chest, my hand on his abs. And, wow, he smellsdivine. Feels like heaven.
My heartbeat drums and skips and hiccups.
But, I can also hear his. It might not be as erratic as mine, but it’s not exactly calm either. He’s affected by me, and that thought sends heady thrills through me.
“Like this,” he whispers in my hair.
By way of expressing I’m more than okay with him holding me, I press myself closer to him. Relaxing into him.
He sighs. And I smile because it’s agoodsigh.
Hope clouds around the curves of my heart like fog.
Maybe, just maybe, Madame Universe has changed her mind about me and will do something good for me this time around.
Like giving me my dream man.
ChapterTwenty
“You’ll see.”
Lyra
When I wake up the nextmorning, he’s gone.
I don’t remember falling asleep, but I do remember waking up in the middle of the night with the urge to pee and found him spooning me, sound asleep. Suffice it to say, I wrestled my bladder into submission and didn’t move an inch, because no way was I going to ruin perfection.
Now, though, I’m feeling the consequences of that decision. Stomach cramping, I dart out of bed and straight to the bathroom, barely making it in time. Will a possible UTI be worth being spooned by Torin Garza? Hell yes. But I’m sure he would beg to differ.
I take a cold shower, brush my thick, long hair back in a low ponytail, don yoga pants and a tank top, then all but skip down the stairs, hoping he’s still here.
Tillie and Monica are in the kitchen. But Torin is nowhere to be seen.
Of course he isn’t.
“Good morning, Cinderella,” Tillie says with a knowing grin. “You slept later than usual.”
Better than usual, too.
Settling on one of the barstools, I drop my chin in my hands, scanning all the utensils and ingredients on the counter. “Are you cookingdinner? So early?”
“Yep. Mom has this lame tradition of feeding hergrown asssons‘Jamaican-style Sunday Dinner’ every week,” Tillie supplies. “So we start early so that there’ll be enough time to take dinner to them and back. Tripp lives in Venice, and Trent and True lives in Santa Monica, so it’s a bit of driving.”
“I don’t understand,” I say. “If you’re the ones doing all the cooking, why can’t they come get the food themselves?”
“Yes,Mom,” Tillie says emphatically, turning to Monica, “why can’t youradultsons be bothered to get in their expensive vehicles and come collect the foodweso graciously prepare for them?”
Monica rolls her eyes. “Neither of you have kids, so you will never understand.” From the fridge, she gets out a bowl of fruit and sets it firmly in front of me with a fork. “You, eat something.”
