Page 46 of Falling for the Pucking Bad Boy

Finally, the door to the giant hall that she disappeared into opens, and Rory steps out in that black dress that should be illegal to wear in public because she looks ridiculously hot in it.

It's not ostentatious; it doesn't have to be.

It effortlessly captures every curve and angle of her, and a possessive irritation strikes me at the thought of anyone else tonight soaking in her image.

Her hair is a soft cascade of waves, nonchalant yet perfect. It's that understated beauty, the kind that whispers instead of shouts, and damn, it gets me every single fucking time.

Restlessness gnaws at me because, despite everything, there's a real chance Rory won't let me off the hook. I'd climb mountains to win back her favor, but even as I stand, ready to start the ascent, I'm sharply aware she doesn't need me to plant her flag on any peak.

And I’ll wait for however long it takes.

"Hey," I say as she nears, a word too small for the enormity of this moment.

"Hi, Wells." I look at her face, searching for clues about how this will go down.

I can't get a read on her; she's a closed book, her expression a mask of neutrality. It only spikes my unease.

My hand finds the back of my neck- an unconscious gesture as I search for the right words. "I need to apologize for—"

"It's fine," she says, quick, easy, and dismissive as all hell.

I obviously didn’t start on the right foot with her boss in tow, but he put his hands on her.

That’s a fucking no in my book.

She folds her arms, and her posture tells me she's braced for whatever I need to say, and that’ll give her the out she needs.

However, it’s not going to be that easy for her.

“I didn’t do anything with those girls,” I tell her. “I wouldn’t. They were hangin’ out with Cyrus, my buddy on the team, and I went out to dance. They followed. It wasn’t shit else. The media stirred that shit like they always do, and since I’m a playboy in the books, it wasn’t hard to make the story up.”

Rory bows her head, and I’m unsure if it’s in understanding or straight disbelief.

“I’ve fucked up a lot in the past, but I didn’t care. Now I do.”

“Why?” That question comes right after my comment, and I have no problem clarifying more for her. I know what my name is associated with—playboy, heartbreaker, a dude who doesn’t do relationships because they’re too much work.

“Because I’m all in on this,” I reply honestly. “We might not be dating publicly, and I get that. But that doesn’t mean I’m off doing the shit I did before.”

“How do I know that?”

“You don’t,” I say. “And I don’t expect you to wait around and see if I knock some chick up, but that’s not even in the cards for me. If I get anyone knocked up, I’d want it to be—”

“Don’t even manifest that shit, Wells,” she threatens back lightly with narrowed eyes. “We’re not getting pregnant.”

“Well, not now,” I reply, forcing my lips not to take this moment to be a smartass. “I won’t go out if that makes you—”

"I'm not that girl. I'm not here to dictate your life."

But part of me wishes she would, just a little.

"I want you to," I urge her. "If my going out bothers you, say the word. It all stops."

The air between us thickens, charged with silent confessions and shared insecurities. Rory fixes on me with a probing look that demands honesty.

"What do you want?" Her question isn’t about now. It’s vast and open-ended, asking me to lay bare the complications of desire and compromise.

"I want this," I say, motioning between us. "Whatever we're doing, I want to get it right. I want you. And I'm willing to adapt to make that work. I’m willing to do anything.”

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