The Secret (Winslow Brothers 3)

“I know so,” I respond and mean every word. And I can’t stop myself from wondering what these words mean to her.

What inspired her to write them? What hope has bloomed? And do I have anything to do with it?

“Can I tell you a secret?” she asks, and her voice is still so quiet, so vulnerable, that I give her my full attention without even thinking about it.

“Always.”

“I love the idea of writing a novel, but if I had a choice, I would write poetry.”

“And who says you don’t have a choice?”

She shrugs. “The great Nadine Rose didn’t write poetry.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t ask about Nadine Rose,” I respond and reach out to brush a piece of hair out of her face. “I asked about the great Rachel Rose.”

She rolls her eyes and snorts. Like my saying the great Rachel Rose doesn’t apply. Doesn’t mean anything.

“I already knew your words were powerful,” I tell her. “I’ve seen it in the notes you write on my students’ essays. I’ve also caught a few glimpses of some of your grad school papers that you maybe didn’t want me to read, but I accidentally read them.”

“What?” she questions on a shocked laugh. “When have you been reading my papers?”

“Don’t be mad, but you’ve been saving them in my Drive, and I just couldn’t help myself.”

“Ty!” she exclaims and smacks a playful hand to my chest. “You little sneak!”

“I’m sorry?” I respond, though, I’m not sorry at all. Rachel’s mind intrigues me endlessly.

“You don’t sound very sorry,” she chastises, though her smiling mouth is the opposite of her words.

“Well, I am. To a point. I mean, it’s not my fault you’re really fucking intriguing. And brilliant.”

Her gaze turns so soft it makes a little ache form inside my chest. “You think I’m brilliant?”

“Yes. Of course I do.” I rub my thumb across the words she drew on her skin. “And these words right here are proof that I’m right.”

She just stares down at where my hand meets her thigh.

“You should write more, Rachel,” I whisper toward her and press a soft kiss to her forehead. “Not because I think you should live up to some kind of expectations, but because I think you’re really talented.”

She starts to open her mouth but quickly closes it.

And I decide not to push the conversation further.

I said what I needed to say. I said what I think she deserved to hear.

“By the way, I hope you’re hungry,” I add, purposely changing the subject as I get off the bed. “Because I ordered just about everything off the room service menu. They should be here shortly.”

She snorts. “You’re all about the everything this week, aren’t you?”

“Oh, doll, you have no idea,” I answer and walk back over toward her to bury my face between her bare breasts. I lick and suck at her nipples until she’s squealing uncontrollably.

And I don’t pull away until I hear three knocks sound from the door.

“Room service!” a male voice calls from the hallway.

“First, we eat,” I call over my shoulder as I head out of the bedroom. “And then, I dine!”

Her responding laughter follows me all the way to the door.

I’m starting to think it might be the best thing I’ve ever heard.

Monday, March 4th

Rachel

Sunlight peeks in through the windows of our hotel room, and I blink my eyes open. When I reach out to feel the spot beside mine, the one where Ty should be, I realize he’s already out of bed.

What time is it? I wonder and turn on my side to grab my phone off the nightstand.

7:30 a.m. glares back at me.

Ugh. Too early.

I squint, and when I spot two missed text message notifications on the screen, I open my inbox and realize they’re from my father. The first came in about thirty minutes ago.

Dad: There’s still time for me to swing by and pick you up on my way to the conference. Call me.

And the second one was delivered about ten minutes ago.

Dad: Rachel, sweetheart, I can’t deny this is highly disappointing. I thought you were realizing what it means to be focused on your career.

Why does he always have to make things so damn difficult?

I throw my head back onto the pillows and sigh. When that doesn’t ease the annoyance, I turn onto my belly and silently scream into the cushy fabric. And once I finish with my tiny hissy fit, I decide on two things—I’m not going to text him back, and I’m not going to feel guilty about it.

I already told him that I was busy this week.

Sure, I’m busy spending the week with someone he explicitly told me not to, but I don’t care. It’s no one’s business but mine. And Ty’s. We are both grown-ass adults who are capable of making their own decisions.

Officially talked off the guilt-ledge, I slide out of bed, my mind focused on enjoying the day.