Is this madness, or is this real?
Maybe it’s both.
“So?” he says. “Or am I going to have to start spanking you every time you change the subject?”
Shivers dance over me at the words, tickling against my skin, as though his hands are already gripping my flesh with possessive power.
“The truth is,” I murmur, “I’ve made hardly any progress with my writing. All those times you watched me write, do you know what I was doing?”
“Apart from looking drop-dead gorgeous?”
I giggle and avert my gaze, a flush spreading across my cheeks, moving down my throat. I can feel it moving all over my body, colonizing all the different parts of me.
“I can’t believe we can joke about this,” I say.
“I’m not joking,” he growls. “You really did look beautiful—you do look beautiful.”
I grip the edge of the table tightly for a moment, a spike of anxiety moving through me at the compliment.
I keep seeing Zack Sykes’ leering face under the bleachers, his lies boiling through my mind.
I force myself to release the table and take a breath.
Forrest isn’t the same. He just made a mistake.
And I don’t want to run away from Forrest, not even a little bit.
“So, why no progress?” he asks, staring at me in that intense way of his, the way that makes me feel like I’m the only woman who matters.
“I don’t know,” I sigh. “I start a project and then I lose my way. So I start another one. I’ve toyed with lots of different genres over the years, and right now I think romance is my jam. I love romance. But I guess it’s hard to write when I’ve never, you know, had a romance.”
“Until now,” he says, reaching over and stroking his hand up my arm, across my cheek.
I move my face toward his touch, savoring the strength of it.
“Maybe I could write one based on us, huh?” I say. “I could write about you watching me, wanting me, and then taking me to Paris. I could write about how quick and crazy this has all been. Yeah, that could work. But maybe you wouldn’t want me writing about you. I’d use different names, obviously.”
“Write away,” he says fiercely. “I can see how passionate you are. If you think you’ve got a project you can finish, a project that will bless the world with your talent, then do it, Fiona. Don’t let anybody stop you. I’ll support you all the way. I’ll set you up in a Parisian penthouse and lock you away until you have a finished manuscript.”
I reach up and touch his hand, pressing it against my face, warm skin pressing against warm skin.
“I’ve thought of that before,” I say. “Just disappearing someplace and not letting myself come out until I’m finished. But that would get in the way of my very fulfilling waitressing career.”
He chuckles at my sarcasm, removing his hand.
His quicksilver eyes dance with hilarity.
“Oh, it’s your passion, is it?” he says, with heavy irony.
“Oh yeah,” I giggle. “I wake up in the middle of the night thinking of all the different ways I can improve as a waitress. It really is my calling in life.”
We laugh together and it feels like heaven, this release, this ability we have to forget the rest of the world and the past and the future and just be together.
“You never need to wait tables again,” Forrest says.
“What, just quit?”
“Why not?” he says. “Money is no concern for you, Fiona. You don’t need to worry about it.”
“What—you’d just pay my way?”
“You’re going to be the mother of my children,” he snarls. “Of course I will. You deserve a palace and servants to wait on you.”
I shake my head, looking around the yellow-lighted room, at the rows and rows of books. The room is filled with the smell of the books, gorgeous and tempting, calling me back to all the libraries and bookshops I’ve visited over the years.
“I don’t think these writers got as good as they are by taking handouts.”
“There have been plenty of wealthy authors over the years,” Forrest says. “But, if you really decide you don’t want to take my money, I’d never force it on you.”
“I didn’t say that,” I laugh. “I just … I don’t know. Maybe let me think about it?”
“You never have to do anything you don’t want to do,” he says. “Those days are over. You’re mine now. You belong to me, and that means I’ll protect your right to choose any path you want.”
I move my hands over my belly as tingles move through me.
My womb shivers and dances inside of me, as though she’s cheering at his words.
It’s like she’s talking to me, You better take him up on his offer. We’re going to have a family to provide for. Let him support your writing journey.