Page 130 of The Secret We Keep
I shrug nonchalantly and drop one knee to the floor.
“Oh my God.”
I double take when I hear her breath catch. “Christ. No. I wasn’t doingthat.” I quickly scramble to my feet with her clothes in my hand. “I was going to help you get dressed,” I say in a rush, giving the clothes a little jiggle in between us.
“Right,” she flusters, her hands covering her face, before we both break into comfortable laughter.
Breathing out a heavy, steadying breath, I tell her, “I want you to be mine. Officially.” There, I hope that makes her feel better.
She stills. “Yours?”
My legs feel unsteady, feeling every bit as uncomfortable as I imagined I would. Not because of what I’m asking or who I’m asking. But because it’s selfish of me to ask her to be with me when she doesn’t even know that she’s living with a lifelong illness. If she knew, that would take precedence over everything. Including me.
“Mine.”
Her lips pinch together at the same time as her forehead wrinkles. “Officially?”
“Yeah. Arms up,” I instruct, giving her arm a light tap.
Gazing at me, giving me the most unabashed eye contact I think she ever has, she raises both arms above her head.
I loop her arms through her top and pull it down, readjusting her hair for her.
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
She smiles. “Yeah.”
I point a finger at the floor. “Now, I’m going back down there, but I’m just going to hold this thing you call a skirt open for you, alright?”
Happiness emanates from her as her cheeks visibly lift. “Alright.” She uses my shoulders to keep steady as she steps into the skirt, one foot at a time. “I wore this so you’d find me sexy.”
I swallow, my eyes level with her thighs. “Trust me, curly fries. The skirt wasn’t needed for me to think that.”
She remains quiet, but I can bet she’s blushing.
“Bollocks.” I stand, holding her bra in my hand. “Forgot this,” I show her, just as the door flies open.
I shove Morgan’s bra behind my back, spinning around on the spot. “Mum?”
She looks between the two of us. “What are the pair of you doing?”
“We’re talking, Mum. Jesus.”
Morgan tugs at her bra.
Mum’s back jams ramrod straight. “You talking to me in that tone, boy?”
Morgan chuckles behind me.
“No, Mum,” I say scolded, trying not to smile.
“That’s right you’re bloody not.” She huffs. “Dad’s opening the bottle of Sambuca, wants to know if you and Morgan are joining him for celebratory shots?”
“Of Sambuca?” I can feel my glands swelling at the thought. “God, no.”
“I’m in,” Morgan sings, and I sag.
