Page 48 of Sassy Love
My eyes fly open, and I am acutely aware of Rawlins’s steady hands still holding me to his chest. Shooting back to my feet and upright, I put space between us.
“Okay, your turn,” I say to Mr. Fucking Perfect. “You fall this time, I’ll catch you.”
“No, we are done here.” Manuel smiles at me.
“What? No, he didn’t have a proper turn.”
“He doesn’t need to go again, Miss Carlie, he already fell. He already trusts you.”
I open my mouth to object but, realizing Manuel has a point, I close it. Rawlins already took the risk on me; he already trusted me with his safety. He did his part. I feel second place again. Like this is some contest over who is the nicest.
One I’m never going to win.
After years of looking after myself, working twice as hard as everyone else to make it this far, I guess I lost the nice-girl vibe somewhere along the way. Honestly, it probably died somewhere in the ten years I worked for Carlson.
“You have free time now. Be free, my lovelies. I will see you for dinner and then honesty hour at eight sharp.” Manuel waves as he heads for the communal area.
Leaving Rawlins and I standing on the grass, staring at each other.
It’s fucking awkward.
“Yeah, so, sorry about crushing you.” Rawlins offers a slight smile.
“Forget it. I should have paid attention.”
“Is that a concession, Lamont?”
“What? No!”
He laughs, genuine and hearty, and he’s... absolutely gorgeous.
My stomach flip-flops, and I force my attention to the lucky fuckers at the pool still sipping their cocktails. Rawlins glances to where my gaze has drifted. “Did you want to grab a drink?”
“Ah, no.” I force a smile and decide it’s time I got some work done. But as I turn to leave, a hand catches my wrist. I look down to where his large, warm hand holds me to the spot. “What?”
“Lawson,” he says softly, studying my face.
“I know your first name, Rawlins.”
“Then use it, Carlie.”
My lips pop open, and heat rushes my neck and face as I suck in a breath at hearing my first name from his mouth. Somehow, I manage, “Why?”
“Consider it a nonnegotiable of this professional relationship of ours.”
“We don’t?—”
“Yeah, you said that, but we do have a relationship. Whether you like it or not. We ought to make the most of it with the little time we have left together at Serenity.”
I don’t know what to say, torn between the reality of one of us leaving in a few short months and the feeling that’s growing with his touch, his words. The way that having Rawlins—Lawson—in my days has become something I can count on.
“This does not mean we are friends,” I add for clarification.
He runs a hand through his hair, glancing somewhere in the distance before his deep blues settle back on me. “Carlie, you and I can’t be friends.”
Confused, I tug my hand from his grip. What the hell is that supposed to mean?
“See you later,” he says, heading for the bar area by the pool.
