“That went well, don’t you think?” he asks when we back out.
“I mean, I don’t think she hates you.” I chuckle.
“She’s very protective of you. I like that.”
“Protective is an understatement, but yes. She is. Sometimes it’s a little much.”
The next five miles are silent. I’m lost in thought, replaying pieces of conversation tonight like memorized clips. Analyzing them. Imagining everything from their point of view. But eventually Trey’s words slip somewhere between all of that.
He knows me better than I thought—yet there’s still that one thing he doesn’t know.
Every time I convince myself to come clean, he distracts me with a disarming smile or his hand between my thighs or the dizzying way he drinks me in after a long day, and I get caught up in the moment, the delicious escape he provides.
“I meant what I said earlier tonight,” he breaks the silence. “All of it.”
My thoughts freeze, but my body has a lot to say. Feelings are funny things, the way they crawl down your skin and tighten your chest and flip your stomach. It’s a bizarre rollercoaster of fear, anticipation, relief, and ecstasy. And I’ve never been a fan of rollercoasters.
“You’re sweet to say those things,” I finally respond.
“Don’t.” His voice is terse.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t downplay this.”
“I’m not downplaying anything. You said some nice things, and I appreciate that. So thank you.”
“I think you’re falling for me, Sophie. I see it in your eyes. I hear it in all the things you don’t say. And I think it terrifies you.”
If he only knew.
“We made a pact in Seattle,” he continues. “Do you remember that?”
I swallow the tight lump in my throat, sensing where this is going. “Yes.”
“We promised to speak up if this started feeling more than physical,” he says. “And so I’m speaking up. I like you, Sophie.”
Heat creeps up my neck. The words that should come, refuse. Stubborn. Like me.
I like him too.
“This is new for me,” he continues. “Unchartered territory.”
I clasp my hands in my lap, staring at the cherry red taillights in front of us until my eyes sting.
“You don’t have to say anything.” He takes the pressure down a notch, and I exhale. “Not tonight. But whenever you’re ready to have a conversation about this—a real fucking conversation—I’ll be ready.”
If I relent, if I tell him how I truly feel …
If I give myself to him wholly …
It’s only a matter of time before the newness wears off, things grow stale, and something shiny and new catches his eye. He might be superhuman, but he’s still only human.
“Can I sleep in a guest room tonight?” I ask when we get back to the estate. “Just for a little space?”
“No,” he says, avoiding my stare. “I’ll sleep in a guest room. You can have our bed.”
In that moment, the overwhelming urge to climb into his arms and kiss his mouth and inhale his sharp scent and pretend like everything is easy and physical again rushes through me, but I let it pass.
Now that he’s admitted he’s catching feelings, it’s never going to be the way it was.
I’m climbing the stairs to the second level when he disappears into his study. By the time I reach the landing, I hear the clink of a crystal tumbler as he pours a glass of bourbon followed by the familiar creak of his grandfather’s leather chair.
I wash up and change for bed, opting for one of the modal pajama sets I wore the first night we shared a bed. Slouchy. Comfortable. Not sexy in the least.
It’s weird, sleeping with clothes on now. And the bed is cold and empty without him. An hour later, I’m no closer to sleep than I was before. When my mind races like this, it’s impossible to shut it off.
I’m going to tell him tomorrow, and I’m going to tell him everything. It can only go one of two ways.
Flinging the covers off, I tiptoe downstairs to get a glass of water from the kitchen. On my way back, I spot the light in his study glowing through a half-open doorway. Quietly, I make my way over.
He’s as still as a statue in his oversized chair. His bourbon rests in front of him, untouched. I doubt he’s moved an inch since an hour ago.
“You just going to stand there or you going to come in?” His voice sends a start straight through me. “I heard your footsteps.”
His gaze steers toward the doorway and, for the first time in forever, he doesn’t look like he’s two seconds from making a sexual meal out of me.
I enter, though reluctant, words stuck in my throat. The clock on the wall reads a quarter past midnight. I told myself I’d tell him tomorrow …
Tomorrow has arrived.
“Before I tell you how I feel.” My voice is distant in my ears, like my words are coming from someone else. “I have to tell you something.”