Page 57 of It Must Be Love

"Can you please stop doing that?" she urged.

"Why?"

"Because…I'm not…we're not…."

I loved to see her flustered like this because then she wasn't looking away from me anymore; she wasn't staring at my shoes or hers; she was standing up to me, and it was fucking awesome.

"I thought about who my type was," I continued, stressing each word, "and found that it isn't a woman who's only good-looking. I actually don't even think a lot of the women I dated were great-looking. It wasn't women who were confident either. Because I thought that's what I liked about Ann. It wasn't even women who were smart because I've dated some…well, let's just say some of the women I've been with were not the sharpest pencils in the box. My type, I realized, was convenient. I dated and slept with women who didn't take up my time. They didn't disrupt my life. They adjusted to my schedule."

She cocked an eyebrow. "That's arrogant."

"Maybe. But these women were fine with it. I thought that I didn't want a woman to change my life—what I didn't realize is that when I met the right woman, I would want to change my life. I would want to make time for her because I enjoy it so much. I would want to do things for her because it makes her smile." I stroked her cheek with a finger.

"What else did you realize?" Her voice was low, breathless.

"My type is a woman who wants me, not Amias Westbrook, the youngest Westbrook or the CEO of Midas, or whatever the fuck else people think I am. I want a woman to take my good, bad, and ugly—and still want me. I want a woman who is kind. That's important for me because I don't want to have kids with a woman who is like my mother. I want a woman who is generous with her heart and will take care of mine." I smiled at her and continued to touch her face, loving that she was letting me.

She cleared her throat and took a deep breath.

"I don't like dressing up. I don't like what I'm wearing. I'm not comfortable with it. I…just…Darren got this for me last Christmas and said that I should wear it once I was done mourning my father, and…this is not me."

I sat back and pondered how what she said was connected to what I'd told her. Once I understood what she was trying to tell me in her own convoluted way, I replied, "Then put on something comfortable. I don't give a shit."

"But you think I have terrible fashion sense," she threw back at me.

"Ann has great fashion sense, and she's a complete bitch. Also, I don't give a fuck about what you wear or don't wear. You are what matters, not your clothes."

She rolled her eyes. "That sounds like a line coming from you. I don't believe you."

I smiled.

"What?" she demanded.

"For someone who doesn't like confrontation, you have no problem voicing your opinion to me. Is that because you trust me?"

She drank some wine and closed her eyes, shaking her head. She looked fucking adorable.

"I want to explore a relationship with you," I said huskily.

Her eyes snapped open. "Why?"

"For crying out loud, Naya, I just told you why."

"This is not how I normally look," she blasted.

"Change. Wear whatever the fuck you want. Don't ever wear a red dress again." I rose and held out my hand. "Come on, go change."

Her lips trembled, but she stood up and put her hand in mine. Her eyes were suddenly bright with tears.

"Hey, hey." I pulled her to me. "What did I say? Fuck. I hurt you. How? I'm so sorry, babe, I—"

"It's not you," she cut in. "It's me. Me. When you say you want a relationship…you probably mean you want to have sex, right?"

"Yes…but we can wait, Naya. I don't intend to jump your bones right away."

She sighed. "That's not it. I mean, I'd love to have you jump my…no, what I'm saying is…."

I pulled her into my arms and leaned back so I could look at her. "You want to try that again?"

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