Page 29 of Make Me Yours

But I can’t help it. This man is ridiculously good looking and I’m just…me, the tomboy who inherited her beautiful mother’s genes, but has no idea what to do with them. I can’t transform “cute” into drop-dead gorgeous the way she did. I’ve never had the time or the patience for girly stuff like expensive haircuts or makeup or dressing for my body type.

But I suddenly wish I’d made time. At least a little.

“Very much,” Weaver confirms in a husky voice that makes my entire body tingle again. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to change into something more comfortable for lunch at a waterfront bistro.”

I nod. “Okay. I’ll um…steer.”

His lips quirk again. “Excellent idea. Someone should stay on top of that.”

And you can stay on top of me, I silently add, my cheeks flaming as I turn back to face the wheel.

“Get a grip, Gertie,” I mumble beneath my breath as I tug the collar of my sweater away from my flushed throat.

It’s only then that I realize I’m in one of my favorite comfy sweaters, my rain slicker, and jeans, with nothing on my face but the sunscreen I actually remembered today and berry-colored lip gloss. That must be the real reason Weaver is going to change, so that we won’t look as mismatched as we do right now with him in a fancy suit and me dressed to cosplay as Paddington Bear.

It’s thoughtful of him.

It was thoughtful of him to pull away, too, giving me the time and space to decide if I really want a repeat of the other night. But that bossy man who owned my body is still there, lurking beneath Weaver’s excellent manners and self-control. I have a feeling all it would take is a word to bring that heart-palpitation-and-orgasm-inducing side of him to the surface.

And God, I want that, I really do.

But should I? Can I risk breaking my grandfather’s heart for a one-night stand?

“It would technically be a two-night stand at that point,” I whisper as the skyline of Saint Mary appears in the distance. “Or more, depending on how long he’s in town.”

It won’t be long; I know that much. Maybe not even the couple weeks he mentioned on Friday.

It’s clear he can’t wait to get away from his family. He seems to dislike the rest of the Tripps nearly as much as Gramps does.

At least they have that in common.

It isn’t enough to make me consider doing something as stupid as openly dating Weaver Tripp. But it’s enough to think maybe, just maybe, I could justify what I’ve done to Gramps in the unlikely event we’re discovered.

It would behighlyunlikely. I’m good at sneaking around and I lied to my best friend for almost a decade about how I lost my virginity. And lies to protect the people I love will come even easier than lies to protect my pride.

“You’re talking yourself into betrayal awfully quickly,” I murmur, but the wave of guilt I’m expecting doesn’t come.

There’s no room for guilt inside me right now.

There’s only longing and the sobering knowledge that Weaver can’t get back from changing his clothes soon enough. No matter how off-balance he makes me feel sometimes, I already…miss him.

“You’re so fucked,” I murmur, earning a resounding,Sure are, from the inner voice.

Well, at least we agree on something.

chapter 10

WEAVER

It’s such a fucking cliché—thegirl who has no idea she’s beautiful.

I can name three cheesy pop songs on the topic off the top of my head…but that doesn’t stop me from being every bit as drawn in by the phenomenon as the teenaged members of One Direction.

As I watch Sully scan the menu in the autumn sunshine, her cheeks pink from the portable heater our waiter pulled closer to our table, and her hair a golden halo around her face, I’m moved by her beauty. Watching her run a finger over her lip as she thinks, the way she tilts her head with an unconscious sensuality…it’s like standing in front of one of my favorite paintings at The Museum of Modern Art.

I go to MOMA at least once a month, usually right when they open on a Saturday, to take advantage of private member hours in the galleries. I didn’t discover art until I was an adult—it wasn’t something my parents had time for or encouraged an appreciation for in their children—but once I discovered the New York City museums, I was hooked.

Hooked on the sheer volume of genius on display, on the beauty and passion and creativity, but most of all, hooked on the way the art made me feel.

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