Page 44 of Lost in You

“I’m sweaty,” he says apologetically.

“It’s okay.”

It really, really feels like we slept together last night. This is the morning-after cuddle session.

“How you feeling?” he asks, his warm breath near my ear giving me goose bumps.

“Like death.”

He chuckles. “Yeah, I’m hurting too. It was fun, though.”

“You want a rematch later?”

“You might want to check in with your liver and see if you’re still up for it.”

I laugh. “Maybe we’ll need to modify the rules.”

“I’m down. I’ll have to move around a few things on my schedule, of course.”

“Of course. My day is packed, too.”

“Could you pencil in a little time after we eat for some dancing?”

My heart races with excitement. “Dancing?”

He steps back and I immediately miss his closeness. Leaning a hip on the kitchen counter, he looks down at me. “I know you want to grind all over me while we dance to some Sinatra.”

I laugh hard at that. “So much.”

His expression turns serious. “You’re beautiful.”

My heart stutters as I lock eyes with him. “I bet you say that to all the women you’ve survived plane crashes with.”

The corners of his lips turn up in a soft smile. “Don’t deflect, Trin. You’re beautiful. You make me wish I could be...different.”

“Different?”

He looks away and clears his throat. “Better.”

I wonder if he’s talking about his hang-up about sex. Because if there’s something I understand very well, it’s feeling like you’re not right for most people. Too much. I know exactly how it feels to look like you have it all together on the outside when, inside, you’re falling apart.

“I wouldn’t change a thing about you,” I say softly.

I stir the oatmeal, which is close to boiling over, and he pushes away from the counter, the moment over.

Hopefully he’ll think about what I said. My attraction to him has grown so much deeper over the past day now that I know more about him.

I understand him in a way I can’t even put into words.

An hour later, we’ve finished breakfast and filled our empty five-gallon job with snow. Lincoln tended the fire and put an Etta James album on a few minutes ago, and he’s standing in the open floor space by the record player waiting for me.

I used a washcloth to clean myself up and changed into a clean flannel, but I’m missing my toiletries pretty hard right now. I want makeup and perfume. My many flat irons and curling irons. My deliciously scented coconut lotion.

“Come on,” Linc says. “Don’t be nervous.”

“Oh, I’m...”

His gaze locks onto mine and I don’t even bother finishing the sentence. Because yeah, I’m nervous. Even my laugh sounds uptight.

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