Page 31 of Moonlit Thorns

I get the feeling that other words besides difficult might be more appropriate.

“As long as I can remember, they kept separate bedrooms.”

I nod and look straight ahead at the rose bush, unable to continue looking into the depths of his eyes sparkling in the night.

“That was my mother’s prized rose bush. The gardeners always took care of the rest of the property, but this bush was her pride and joy. She’d tend to it every day. It started dying a couple of years ago, and no matter how much the groundskeeper tends to it, it continues to die off.”

I walk forward to get a better look. The thorns on the stems are highlighted by the full moon, and I resist the urge to touch one. “Do they know what’s wrong with it?”

“No,” he says from where he’s still seated on the bench behind me. “I’ve flown in experts to look at it. They’ve tested the soil, inspected the plant, done everything they could think of, and none of them can see any reason why it’s dying.”

I frown and turn to face him. “I’m sorry.”

I’m saying a lot of that tonight, but what else can I say? I don’t know anything about rose bushes, and as he said, he’s employed experts to try to help him to no avail.

“It feels like a bad omen. And in some weird way, it feels a little like I’m losing my mother again.”

I don’t know what possesses me, but all I want is to offer him comfort. Pain is etched into his face, pain I somehow know he carries with him every single day.

Not questioning whether it’s wanted or not, I step between his legs, wrap my arms around him, and hug him. “I know firsthand that nothing I say is going to take away the pain from your loss. But I’m sorry. I keep saying that tonight, but it’s true. I’m sorry your mother is no longer with you and that you had to grow up without her.”

At first, he lets his palms remain pressed against the bench, but he slowly wraps his arms around me, returning the embrace. I’m supposed to be comforting him, but I can’t help the way I feel comforted in return. We hold one another for a moment, soaking in the feel of each other.

“I’m sorry about your father.” His words surprise me, and I pull back to look at him.

“Do you know what happened to him?” I hold my breath, waiting for his answer.

His eyes fill with regret, and he shakes his head. “No more than you. It was an animal attack.”

It’s not that I don’t believe that—I do. I guess I just hoped that someone could tell me how or what animal, or the most difficult answer of all—why. But I suppose sometimes there’s no answer to that last question. That’s why it’s the hardest one to live with.

I nod, looking down at my feet. A chill rolls over me, and I shiver. It’s not cold out tonight, but I’m in sleep shorts with a matching tank.

Asher frowns and slides his hands from back around me, bringing them to the top button of his black shirt.

“What are you doing?” I ask in a panicked voice.

“You’re cold. Put this on over what you’re wearing.”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him I’m fine, but then he spreads his shirt wide, and his chest comes into view. I haven’t seen it since he stopped having me come to the pool, and it looks no less desirable in the moonlight than it did in the sunlight.

He pulls the lower part of his shirt from his dress pants and slides the fabric down his arms before helping me into it. It’s still warm from his body heat, and I watch as he does the buttons up from top to bottom, the ink from his tattoo bending and flexing as though the bear is moving its jaw while he does.

“I would never hurt you. Never raise a hand to you. Ever.” His words are quiet, barely audible. They don’t startle me any less, though. “I know it probably doesn’t seem that way given what happened this evening, but if you never believe a word out of my mouth, believe those.”

His voice pleads, his gaze desperate, and I find that I do believe him.

“I believe you.” I can’t take my gaze away from his.

Once again, that pull to him—which is all kinds of wrong—appears. I don’t know if it’s because I’m surrounded by his scent, dressed in his oversized shirt, or it’s the hunger in his eyes, but when he threads his fingers through my hair, drawing my face closer to his, I’m not thinking about the last time we kissed and how he pushed me away after.

I’m not thinking about how much it will hurt if he does it again.

And I’m definitely not thinking about the consequences of what might happen here tonight.

The only thing running through my brain at this moment is that if I don’t get my lips on this man, I might die.

As soon as his lips touch mine, I feel as though I’m being brought back to life. Dragged from a haze into the clear, moonlit night where there is only him and me and this moment.

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