Page 111 of The Promise Of You

“Tell me,” I say.

“You’re angry.”

No. I’m freaked out. Okay, maybe a little angry too. “Yes.”

“Why?”

Why? First he didn’t want to take my name or number, then he yelled at me, then ignored me, then said we were friends, and for a large part of that time he had my name tattooed on his heart?

“Clover, you’re scaring me. Talk to me.”

I take a deep breath. “No, you talk to me. I wanna know everything. From the top.”

He rolls away from me and settles on his back, trying to pull me against his side.

My body hardens.

“From the top?” He sounds freaked out and reaches for me again.

“We got all night.”

He pinches the top of his nose. “Can we cuddle? I miss your cuddling.”

“No cuddling with liars.” I’m not as angry as I sound, but I do need to make a point.

He lifts himself halfway. “Liar? What did I lie about? I didn’t know I was supposed to disclose a new tattoo.”

It’s not just any new tattoo. I sit up and tuck the dress between my legs. “You lied about your feelings, Justin. You made me miserable because of that. You made yourself miserable.”

He drops a hand on my knee and caresses it gently. “I’m sorry,” he says in a low whisper, so genuine I almost crumble and climb him and cuddle against him.

“Kay,” I say. “Now we’re gonna talk.”

“Kay,” he says, repeating my word. “But can we talk over dinner? I’m starving. It’s either cuddle or eat. You won’t cuddle, I need to eat.”

I almost melt at his confession, but he doesn’t give me enough time to change my mind and nudge myself against him like I want to.

He ducks into the bathroom and leaves me feeling silly. He returns moments later. “It’s all yours,” he says and goes into the kitchen. I slide off the bed, clean up in his very manly, very dark, very stark yet quite awesome bathroom—mostly black tile and chrome.

I find him in the kitchen tossing a salad while something that smells awesome is in the oven.

“Can I do anything?” I’m annoyed at myself for the way I talked to him. Did I push him too fast, too far?

Did I push him away?

“You can come here.” His gravelly voice shoots straight to my lady parts. I make my way to him, relishing the look he gives me. He pulls me into him, one hand behind my back, the other playing with my hair. His gaze jumps from my lips to my temple to the top of my head. “I like you here, Clover. I like you in my arms, I like you in my place. I think I’m gonna like you in my life.”

My chest ba-booms again. “Justin,” I whisper, tilting my head back, angling it just so when he lowers his mouth to mine.

He gives me another of his full, deep, soulful kisses, then pulls back just enough to say, “I made a mistake in Boston. I told you, I was angry at myself. The one way I’m used to dealing with my wounds, is to cover them up in ink.”

My knees buckle at his confession. “Oh, Justin…”

He takes my mouth again, gives me another long, deep, awesome kiss. “But I should know. Even the deepest wounds eventually heal. Sometimes in surprising ways,” he adds, booping me.

We’re feasting on marinated grilled chicken and herbed new potatoes when he says, “After the accident, I had to have some skin grafts. After that, physical therapy. My PT became my best friend, so to speak. He’s an older dude, was in the military, then after his discharge, went back to school. He was exactly who I needed. Tough. Knew what I was going through. Knew what I could handle. Knew how to bring me back. All the way. Once I was completely healed, I just kept on going with training and shit.”

I can’t help but roam my eyes over his body. The training and shit definitely worked.

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