Page 35 of The Contractor's Rose
I rolled my eyes and gave him a light smack on the shoulder. He winced dramatically while still smiling, like I’d actually hurt him.
I took another drink of wine only to realize it was my last sip. I frowned down at the empty glass then fiddled with the rim, suddenly nervous again.
“I don’t mean it like—why didn’t this happen years ago? I didn’t expect it then. I didn’t even think it was possible.” I sighed. “I just … I never knew you were … interested? That you wanted this. Us. Me.”
He reached out and gently took the glass from my hand, setting it down on the table’s edge. And apparently that glass had been holding me together because it was like the floodgates of irrationality opened.
“I mean, unless this is a midlife crisis thing? Like when men go get a motorcycle or sports car. Or when they divorcetheir wife to marry the nanny. Oh, or hair plugs. I hear a lot of men do that too. What is a hair plug, anyway?”
I rambled until my brain decided to flip back on, and then horror set in. “Oh my God, what was in that wine?”
I dropped my head into my hands, groaning into my palms. I wanted to melt into the cushions and disappear.
When I peeked back up at him, he was smiling.
Not just smirking—smilinglike I had just handed him the goddamn moon.
That face could have been carved by gods.
You’re so pretty, I thought to myself.
His smile stretched wider. “Thanks. No one’s ever called me pretty before.” He winked.
And suddenly, his boxers—the ones I was still wearing—felt significantly more damp than they had all night.
“Jesus Christ, I said that out loud.”
He took my hand gently and lifted it to his mouth. Pressed a soft kiss to my knuckles that nearly made me melt.
“Now,” he said softly, “because before, I couldn’t see past surviving. I was just getting through the days. But now … I want more. I want to live. And love again.”
I was speechless. My head was spinning—but that might’ve just been the wine. Or maybe him. Most definitely him.
He didn’t stop there. “Just because you’re here now doesn’t mean I haven’t seen you, Rose. You are a stunning, brilliant, caring woman. Any man would be lucky to have you.” He paused, rubbing his thumb across my knuckles. “And I think I’ve wanted to have you for a long time. But the timing wasn’t right. I wasn’t ready for you.”
I swallowed, my heart cracking open just a little more.
“And what about the timing now?” I whispered.
He smiled, then gently lifted my legs from his lap and set them down. I blinked in confusion as he stood and turned off the fire pit. He collected his empty beer bottle and my glass in one hand, then reached his other down toward me.
His palm was warm and steady.
“Now, the time is right, sweet girl.”
And I took his hand. I knew—deep in my chest, deep in my bones—he meant it.
TWENTY
GAVIN
She lookedup at my outstretched hand with pure trust in her eyes. For a long second, after she placed her hand in mine and stood, I didn’t move. I just stood there on the deck and admired her—bare legs, wine-warmed cheeks, wearing my shirt and my goddamn boxers like she’d always belonged in them.
I wanted to touch her again. Wanted to fall into her mouth, press her against the cushions right here outside, feel her melt under me like she had earlier in the kitchen.
But I wouldn’t. Not tonight.
I promised to take care of her when I found her crying on that soaked bookstore floor, and I meant it. Taking care of her didn’t mean giving in to every flash of heat that licked up my spine the second she touched me. It meant holding firm to right and wrong when she couldn’t. With the way the wine had hit my little bookworm, I would make sure tonight was about relaxing and nothing more.
