Best I Ever Had

I’m left stunned.

Speechless.

As I stare into her eyes, mine get wet. What the fuck?

My heart isn’t racing but calm instead.

It dawns on me by just looking at her—she means what she says. “You love me?”

“I do. I love you.”

Just like that. She just puts her own heart on the line, this time for my benefit.

I drop my gaze to the bed sheet between us and shake my head, trying to comprehend what that really means.

She adds, “Last night, you said you were in love with me?” The question has me looking up again. The tremble in her voice has me taking her hand and holding it between mine.

“I do. I’m so in love with you, Story.”

She runs her thumb over the side of mine. “Then what’s wrong?”

Grabbing my neck, I try to force down the lump that’s formed, but it’s the overwhelming feeling that I don’t deserve this woman. Her heart is bigger than the universe. “Nothing, actually,” I start, struggling to figure out why I’m so fucking emotional. “It’s all right. I mean, this.” I bounce a finger in the air between us. “Everything is so right.”

She smiles with a tilt of her head. “It is. So right.”

Locking down whatever’s happening on the inside, I grin. “We should eat while it’s hot.”

Commanded by the suggestion, her stomach growls. “What did you order?” She waggles her eyebrows. You’d think we were still talking about sex. Nope. Food.

I chuckle as I push off the bed. “Let me serve you, ma’am.”

Reading my mood, she lets me go without protest. It’s not that I want to leave her side. It’s that I need to clear the air to figure out why I was just sideswiped by her telling me she loves me.

With the back of her hand to her forehead, she puts on a good damsel-in-distress act when we both know she doesn’t need a man. For me, it’s a privilege to be a part of her life . . . and have her love. Shit. Now the l-word is casually being thrown around like we’re okay with it. Am I okay?

I think I am.

With her, I know I am.

“Your kindness is much appreciated, kind sir.” The dramatic flair is fun at the moment, but I sure am glad that’s the opposite of who she is.

It sucks that Camille and my mom come to mind, but they’re prime examples of women who use those tactics to get what they want.

I prefer being grounded in Story over the fake I grew up around. She sits on the couch, and although she’s waiting silently, her wiggling gives her excitement away.

“Lap or table?” I ask, holding a domed plate for her.

“Lap but only if you’re sitting next to me.”

I hand her the breakfast plate, then pour us both a cup of coffee. She says, “Orange juice, water, coffee, breakfast? I might be mistaken, but you’re either trying to fatten me up or hydrate me so when we spend the next twenty-four hours in bed, I have the energy.”

“Not a bad idea, but I’m not sure that waffles and strawberries will be that energizing. They might have you back asleep in an hour.” Chuckling, I sit on the couch with the plate on my lap. Taking a bite of bacon, I start thinking about Christmases past, and although I wouldn’t trade this one for any other, it’s strange not being home for the holiday. “At home, I never ate anywhere but at a formal dining table until I went to college. I’m talking silver, china . . .” Always the rebel, I cut my waffle with my fork instead of the knife. “Servers. The whole works. Every night. It was . . .” I chuckle again, thinking about how much I hated that we couldn’t act like a normal family. “It was a lot. I used to—”

“Servers? You had servants?”

The questions and the accusation built into them draw my eyes to her. “No, we had staff. They didn’t wait on us hand and foot.” Feeling defensive, I add, “I couldn’t just order what I wanted or demand someone to do something. They did a job, and that was it.”

“Like me,” she states, her tone flat.

“No.” Fuck. Not sure how I even fucked this up or how to proceed, I run my hand through my hair.

“Not like me?” she prompts.

“Like you at work. Yes, Story. Not like you now.”

Her head jerks back. “You mean eating with you in this fancy hotel? They weren’t allowed to eat with you?” She sets her plate on the table in front of us. That can’t be good. Not that it has been so far.

“Story—”

“Cooper.”

“I’m not sure why this upsets you, but let me be clear. The staff is paid. Yes, like you are at the coffee shop, but they’re given a salary. We don’t tip them at the dinner table, though they get bonuses.” I shake my head as I dig this hole deeper. “We’re fucking awful people, Story. Is that what you need me to admit? I admit it. Openly. You’ve seen the red flags.” I don’t think she’s even aware that she’s running her hand over her scar. I sigh heavily, losing my appetite. “I’m really fucking this up. I’m sorry.”