Page 121 of Lace 'em Up

Her next breath is shaky. “I don’t have a dress.”

“So we’ll go shopping,” Rory says gently. “I need to pick up some accessories for mine anyway.”

“I—”

“I’ll book you a ticket, Mom,” I tell her. “You just get on the plane.”

A long silence as I half expect her to disconnect the call.

But then she just sighs again, says, “Okay.”

And then she disconnects.

I push the button to open the garage door, pull inside, park, and look over at Rory.

Her expression is gentle. “I’m okay.”

Okay.

I fucking hate that she’s okay.

I want her to be great, to be perfect.

Which is why I turn the engine back on, reverse right the fuck out of the garage, and?—

See about making sure she knows she’s exactly that.

To her credit, it takes Rory a solid five minutes to ask, “Um, want to clue me in to what the hell you’re doing?”

“Prickle princess coming out?”

“Cactus Queen who will spike your ass is out and ready to play.” She pretends to jab at me with her finger.

I grin. “Well, her Royal Spikiness can just wait to find out.”

She snorts, but there’s something careful about the way she settles her hand back into her lap that I don’t love.

Hell, who am I kidding?

I fucking hate it.

The distance. That she’s cautious to touch me. That she’s worried about what my reaction might be.

Considering her stepsister’s shit fit that’s not a surprise.

Considering her asshole of a fiancée, also not a surprise.

Considering all she’d lost…newsflash, it’s still not a surprise.

But I hate that her actions are carefully calculated—that she clearly spends a lot of mental energy trying to make sure that she’s not stepping outside of some irrational boundary one of the assholes in her life drew up.

I hate that she can’t just relax and be herself with me, especially when I’ve been more open with her than any other person.

I’ve seen glimpses of it—the real her.

But I want it one hundred percent of the time.

Because…I want her.

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