Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 106001 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 530(@200wpm)___ 424(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106001 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 530(@200wpm)___ 424(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
Speaking that harsh possibility—hell, acknowledging the huge challenge, that’s only a first step, that doesn’t even solve the problem—unlocks something in me. It turns the door on my own emotions for her, the way I’ve tried to keep them tamped down. I’m not sure I can any longer.
“Tell him?” she repeats, looking thoroughly confused, like I’ve spoken a dead language.
“Do you want me to? Because I’m so sorry for what happened in the office,” I say, afraid she might kick me out. She might slam the door. But I have to try.
“What part?” she asks fiercely, challenging me.
I can’t let her think I regret touching her. Not for a second. “For the part where I made you think I was willing to let you go.”
She’s still for a few seconds, frozen in place. But her eyes flicker with hope.
Before I can say anything else, she opens the door for me. “Come in.”
Somewhat relieved, I step inside, drag a hand through my wet hair, and look down at the tiled floor. There’s no puddle, but there are a few drops.
“Do you want a towel?”
No, I don’t want a fucking towel. I want you. I want to talk to you. I want to see you. I want to touch you.
But I ruined things earlier.
And I have to fix them. I have to earn the right to touch her again, to hold her again, to deserve her.
The second the door shuts, I waste no time. “I’m sorry for what happened after the phone call. When I didn’t kiss you goodbye. When I didn’t tell you it’d be okay. And at dinner, when I didn’t steal a moment with you,” I say.
She swallows like there’s a knot in her throat.
But she just waits.
“This is risky,” I say, my eyes locked with hers. “This is the riskiest, scariest, most dangerous thing I’ve ever done. And it’s true that I don’t have a clue what we’re doing, Harlow,” I say, desperation clinging to me. Fitting, since I am desperate for her.
“But are we doing something, Bridger? It didn’t sound like we were when I left your office,” she says, not yet bending, not yet forgiving.
“I was…thrown off then. But the truth is…I just don’t want to stop whatever this is. And I don’t mean the physical,” I say, imploring her as I try to put my heart on the line, hoping she’ll have it. “I mean this thing happening between you and me.” I stop, then clarify, “Between…us.”
Her lips twitch in the hint of a smile, but then it vanishes. Still, it gives me hope, especially when she softens, saying, “When you said what are we even doing…” She stops, shakes her head. “I thought you were ending things. But it’s okay.”
But no.
She doesn’t need to make this easier for me.
“I can’t stop,” I admit, helpless to these feelings for her. I step closer, lift a hand to reach for her, but then drop it. I’ve still got more to say. I bunch my hands into fists at my sides. My emotions might be galloping away from me, but I’ve got to get a handle on the situation. Start small, not big. “Are you okay? The whole night must have been awful.”
“I was really hurt. But I’m okay now. I’m tough,” she says softly.
“I know you are, but I was worried about you at dinner.”
“You were?” It comes out with a touch of wonder.
“Of course. I always worry about you. I always think about you. And I knew seeing your dad after the way the afternoon ended, and the things I said, couldn’t be easy. You’re so strong. So tough. And I shouldn’t have let you go into dinner thinking anything but the absolute truth of what’s happening.”
“What’s the truth?” she asks, sounding desperate too. “What is happening?”
My hand aches to touch her cheek, to hold her face. “I want to spend the evening with you. I want to spend the next night with you, and the next, and the next.” I draw a soldiering breath. “I am absolutely enchanted with you.”
On those words, a smile shifts her lips. Spreads to her eyes. Takes over her whole face. “Enchanted?”
With a small laugh, I stare down pointedly at my soaked clothes. “Yes. So enchanted I walked around the block again and again in a downpour.” I exhale roughly. “Harlow, I don’t have a plan. I don’t know what we’re doing. I don’t know a thing. But…do you want me to tell your father?” I ask again.
Her eyes pop. “Oh god,” she says nervously, perhaps finally processing the scope of what telling her father means, the sheer scale of that mountain. “I don’t know,” she adds slowly, weighing each uncomfortable word.
“If you wanted me to right now, I would,” I say, offering something I have no idea how to deliver.