Page 33 of Make Me Yours

But I can’t let this ache get any more intense. She’s not a painting in a museum; she’s a human being, and they always let you down, sooner or later. At least, with Sully, however, I doubt the let-down would be intentional. She’s a good, honest person. If she disappoints me, it will be because she’s staying true to who she is, and you can’t blame another human being for that. Living in integrity is an admirable thing, even if one person’s version of integrity is very different than another’s.

We move on to our second course and our third, both of us growing increasingly drunk on good food and better company, no bottle of wine required. By the time I pay the bill and we step out onto the boardwalk outside the hotel to walk off our meal, I can’t resist reaching for her hand.

She casts a startled look my way, but after a beat, her fingers curl around mine. “You’re full of surprises, Mr. Fancy.”

“You can call me Weaver.”

She seems to mull that over for a moment before she says, “Maybe I will. And maybe I’ll come over tomorrow night. I have dinner with Gramps tonight at the lodge, but…”

“You would be very welcome tomorrow night,” I say. “I’ll look for you as soon as it’s dark enough to sneak down to the dock.”

She nods. “I’ll be the one dressed all in black.”

“But wear nice panties this time,” I say, earning a glare from her.

“I don’t own any nice panties,” she shoots back. “I have cotton briefs. You’ll just have to make due with those and be glad that you get the chance to take them off of me.”

I tighten my grip on her fingers. “Oh, I will be. Very glad.”

I’ll be far more than “glad,” but I don’t tell her that. I just pull her against me in the shade of a beach shack that’s closed for the season and kiss her, devouring her sweet mouth until she’s moaning for me far louder than she moaned for the escargot.

Take that, snails.

chapter 11

GERTIE

Cana person be considered a sex fiend for justthinkingabout sex twenty-four seven?

Or do you have to actually do the deed more than once to qualify?

This is the question front of mind from the moment my alarm blares at three-thirty Monday morning—interrupting a dream in which Weaver was feeding me exotic foods while slipping his hand between my legs beneath the table—until late Monday afternoon, as I’m zoning out on my favorite couch in the café with a chubby gray cat in my lap, pondering where I might be able to acquire “nice panties” in our one lobster town.

I don’t want to change myself for a man in any way, even a small way.

But Idowant Weaver to look at me the way he did after our kiss on the boardwalk yesterday, like I’m the sexiest thing he’s ever seen. Like he can barely control the urge to rip my clothes off and?—

“Earth to Gertie.” Elaina’s sharp words are followed by a snap of her fingers, inches from my face.

I do a full-body flinch, sending Maybe bolting for the cat climbing structure, where he was hiding in one of the bottom tubes when I arrived. “What, I’m awake, I’m awake. What?”

“I’ve been asking if you wanted a truffle with your espresso shot for at least two minutes.” Elaina props her hands on her hips, making her orange velvet circle skirt poke out even more than it did before. For someone who professes to hate Halloween, she spends a large chunk of October dressed in orange and black. “What’s up with you?”

“Nothing,” I say, feeling bad about withholding information from my best friend, but the fewer people who know I’m seeing Weaver Tripp in a romantic capacity, the better. “I’m fine. Just tired from being out on the boat in the cold all day.”

“You were humming to yourself,” she accuses, her eyes narrowing on my face.

I plaster on what I hope is an innocent expression. “So?”

“And smiling.”

I arch a brow. “I’m not allowed to smile?”

“Of course, you’re allowed to smile. You’re allowed to smile and hum and stare at the wall like you’re watching a dreamy movie only you can see,” she says, settling onto the cushion beside me. “But not when you refuse to share what has you on cloud nine.” She points a finger at my chest, “Orwho… It’s a who, isn’t it? And I’d bet a year’s supply of fancy Himalayan salt that his name starts with a W.”

“Hush!” My eyes fly wide as my gaze flits about what I can see of the café behind her, but thankfully, we appear to be alone.

“Relax, Monday afternoons are always dead,” she says. “There’s no one here but us. Well, us and the cats, but they know how to keep a secret.” Her bottom lip pushes out in an exaggerated pout. “And I do, too. I promise. Please tell me what’s going on. Maya’s been busy shopping with her mom andSydney’s up to her armpits in moving boxes and no one has time for me. I’m lonely and need gossip.”

---