Total pages in book: 24
Estimated words: 21744 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 109(@200wpm)___ 87(@250wpm)___ 72(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 21744 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 109(@200wpm)___ 87(@250wpm)___ 72(@300wpm)
This is better than any sticky note. This is better than anything.
She nudges me again, softer this time, and I realize I haven’t felt this light in years. Maybe ever. Every fear, every wall I’ve built to keep people at arm’s length, they’re just gone. With her here, I don’t need them.
I lean one shoulder into the railing, trying not to look as desperate as I feel. “All right. Enough about me. Tell me about you.”
She laughs, short and sharp, but there’s no wall behind it. “Not much to tell.” Her fingers trace the rim of her glass. Her eyes go soft, brown velvet in the dusk. “My parents weren’t exactly parents of the year. Or… ever.”
That makes me want to hunt down whoever made her feel like that and show them what happens when you screw up something precious.
She just shrugs it off, like she’s talking weather, not trauma. “I’ve been on my own since I was fifteen. Finished school by piecing together classes at night and online.” She drains her wine and doesn’t flinch. “Worked whatever jobs I could get. My only real goal was to not end up like them.”
I can barely process. My chest actually hurts hearing it. She’s so damn resilient, it makes my heart ache. She shrugs again, brushing a wild curl out of her face. “I took this job for the money. Two or three contract cycles, and I can actually afford to go to college. You know, something stable, with an actual future.”
No self-pity. Just… matter-of-fact. Like she’s never even considered whining, just keeps moving forward. I stare at her, actually in awe.
“Fuck, Sierra,” I say. “That’s…” Words fail. So, I step closer, crowding her against the railing, and I swear to God, I’d stake everything I own on making her see how much she matters. “You’re so goddamn perfect.” She huffs a laugh at that, but I see the way her eyes flicker, something raw and open gleaming in the evening light. Her arms are folded across her chest, not to keep me out but to see if I care enough to find my way in. The tilt of her chin, the slight tremble at the corner of her mouth, the way she leans just an inch closer while pretending she isn’t. Challenge accepted.
I set down the tongs, the steaks forgotten, and step right up to her, pinning her against the porch railing. My hands bracket her hips, and she melts into my touch like she’s been waiting her whole damn life for it.
“Look at me,” I rumble. She does, all breathless bravado and wild curls. I can’t help myself. I press my thumb to her cheek, tracing down to her jaw. “You’re mine now, Sierra. You want something, I’ll make sure you get it. We’ll do it together.” I lean in, and my voice drops, raw and rough. “You got dreams? I’m your backup. You got a future to chase? I’ll run beside you every step.”
She blinks, like maybe she’s not used to anyone giving a shit. That makes my chest burn hotter than the grill. I want to fix every stupid thing that’s ever hurt her.
“Wow. You’re too good to be true.” Her voice is small, but there’s a tremor underneath. Hope.
I tip her chin up, make sure she can’t look anywhere but at me. “Nothing is too good for you.” I lay my cards out on the table. “I want you to stay. Here. With me.” It comes out blunt, almost harsh, but I can’t help it. I’ve never wanted anything so much in my life.
She smiles, slow and steady, and the look in her eyes is pure sunshine. “Let’s start with dessert, and we’ll see how things go from there.”
“I love the way you think, sweetheart.”
And as the sun finally dips below the horizon and the stars blink on, I know with absolute, bone-deep certainty that I’m never letting her go. Now, I just have to prove to her that she can trust me.
CHAPTER SEVEN
SIERRA
I should be anticipating the delicious meal Rogan prepared, but my mind is consumed with him. And with the way he’s looking at me.
I make a big show of tucking my napkin in my lap, but my hands are shaking, so I have a hard time laying it flat. Smooth. My pre-dinner wine did very little to settle my ping-ponging nerves.
Rogan slides into the chair at the head of the table. He doesn’t say a word at first, just lifts his wine glass in my direction. The blue-gray of his eyes catches the overhead light, sharp and weirdly gentle. “To new beginnings,” he says, voice low.
I raise my glass to meet his, and blurt out the one phrase echoing around my mind. “To dessert,” I return. His mouth quirks into a smile that could melt steel. Is it possible to spontaneously combust from across a table? Because that’s where I’m at right now.