Love the thought. Truly, I do. “But can anyone really do that?”
“It all comes down to the risks.” Those brown irises take on a thoughtful, faraway look.
Is he thinking about the risks between us? Or are we just talking about books?
My heart scampers, and I hunt for the answer.
What risks would I take to be with him?
He taps the cover of Hazel’s romance, an illustration of a man and woman embracing. “The night I met you, you thought I was going to make fun of this,” he says.
I shrug. “It’s happened before.”
He rolls his eyes. “Who are these idiots?”
“It happens,” I say, indignant at the memory. “I went on a date with this guy in New York, and when he found out I’m a big reader, he said he liked that about me. But his messages would say, ‘Are you reading one of those romance novels? LOL!”
“Why did he think that was funny?” Heath asks, perplexed.
“Because he was a pretentious dick. People like that—if it’s entertaining it’s beneath them.”
“Reading is like sex, I suppose.”
That makes me sit up straighter, and I laugh. But I have to know. “How so?”
“Who really cares if somebody likes it vanilla, or kinky, or hard, or with leather or whips? Who cares if a boy likes a boy or a girl likes a girl? What does it matter? Why does everybody want to judge?”
“Unless it’s Instagrammable photos at pink cafés. Or gatherings,” I tease.
His lips crook into a grin. “There you go. Seems you know me so well.”
Under the table, I tap his calf with the toe of my flat. “I think I do.”
“You definitely do,” he says.
“But let’s return to one thing you just said.” I put on my best seductive purr. “Is this your way of telling me you like whips and chains?”
He laughs huskily, then the laughter burns away when he shifts closer to me, his tone deep and smoky. “I am an open book in that regard. My likes are simple.” He drags the pad of his finger along the edge of his glass. Slowly. Seductively. So luxuriously that I’m mesmerized by the image of what his fingers can do. “I loved everything about our night together. And I want to taste you everywhere. Kiss every inch of your body. Explore you. Have you. Make you feel incredible pleasure.”
That’s it. I’ve officially melted. A sparkler ignites in my body, then bursts into full-on fireworks. “I want that,” I whisper.
His eyes stay locked with mine, darkening as he talks. “I do often wonder why we aren’t tangled up together again. Every night. Every morning. Skin hot, lips eager, under the covers.” My mouth goes dry as my face flushes from the red-hot images he’s painting for me. “But then I remember, and so I do my best to savor everything else with you.”
Then he takes a drink of his beer, letting the charged moment dissipate. Reluctantly, I let it go too.
“But let’s go back to these boys who mocked reading. Was there anyone in New York for you who was . . . special?” he asks, biting out the last word like there’s sand in his mouth.
Heath has some jealousy in him. That’s appealing. I never expected I’d want an envious man, but I like it.
“No. I’ve never really had that deep, abiding kind of love. The kind you must have known.” My throat tightens as I think of what he had and what he lost. “I’ve just had little bits here and there.”
Heath reaches across the table for my hand, takes it, and presses a kiss to my knuckles. “You’ll have it someday. And it’ll be worth it.”
His eyes latch with mine. I shudder, maybe from his gaze, maybe from his touch.
Perhaps, simply from the conversation.
“You loved her. Deeply. Passionately,” I say, voice trembling.
He simply nods. Somehow this both thrills me and hurts me.
Gently, he asks, “Does that bother you?”
“No.” I answer too quickly. It feels wrong to tell him the truth. Maybe it does bother me, his great love. Only because . . . I want his heart for mine.
I want to hold it and protect it.
He squeezes my hand, his eyes reading me perfectly. “Don’t lie to me, Jo. I don’t lie to you.”
His words are powerful, a bit demanding. They insist on truth.
I have to answer honestly. “It shouldn’t bother me, Heath. And in my head, it doesn’t, because I’m glad you had the happiness. I think it would make me sadder, actually, if you’d said you were miserable before.” As I say that, I realize how true it is. If he’d told me they were falling apart, or they didn’t get along, that would have been worse. “I’m glad you had a great love like that.”
“Me too. But do you know what else I’m glad of?” he asks, holding my hand tighter, like he doesn’t want to let me go.