Page 50 of The Fiance Dilemma

He gave one solemn nod. “Favorite one?”

“Pinkshell azaleas or blue thimbles. But I’m not picky. I love them all, and I won’t normally pluck them unless they’re already starting to wither.”

When Matthew spoke, his voice sounded twice as low. Intimate. “A fear?”

“Waterfalls,” I answered easily. “It’s called katarraktiphobia, if you’re wondering.” A shiver ran down my arms. “I’d rather jump into the open ocean and venture being eaten by a shark than walk under one.”

“It’s clowns for me,” Matthew offered. “They terrify me.”

A small smile touched my lips. “They can be very scary.”

“What makes you sad, Josie?”

“Saying goodbye,” I said. “Throwing away leftover cake. Lonely people. Broken things shoved aside.”

There was a strange pause, then something in the brown of his eyes changed. “Why didn’t you tell me that it was your first time meeting Andrew?”

“I do recall sending an SOS text.”

“Josie.”

I sighed, and all the questions I hadn’t asked left me with the exhale. “Why are you not freaking out over this? Page Nine posted our picture, that podcast is apparently saving you for last—whatever that means. Are you not scared? What is your family saying? Aretheyscared?”

“Would me worrying about any of that change anything? Would my family knowing what we’re doing change a thing?”

His answer made me sad. For many different reasons I didn’t want to explain. So I didn’t speak.

“You should have told me, Josie,” he said. “About Andrew.”

I shrugged a shoulder. “Maybe. But it doesn’t change anything either, now, does it?”

“Andrew and I have never gotten along,” Matthew told me, that easy and intimate atmosphere around us wilting. “I shouldn’t say this, not again, but I just don’t trust him. That’s not going to change, even if I step back while you decide whether you want to give him a chance.”

He talked like it was my decision to make. Or like I was his to protect. But were any of those things true? The truth was that my relationship with my father hung by a thread, and I didn’t think Matthew could do more than he already did.

“I’m done talking about myself,” I said. “I’m also done with me being the topic of conversation. I want to hear about Matthew Flanagan.” A sigh escaped me. “At least before everyone else does first. Let’s start with exes. Past relationships? You know all of mine. So what should I know?”

“I’ve had fun,” he answered. “Fucked around. Got my heartbroken a couple times. Nothing worth discussing, really. I made work a priority during the last years.”

Fucked around.He said it so coarsely, as if the word didn’t trigger images he’d planted there during those moments we’d shared in the supply closet at Josie’s. “You had a ring, though,” I observed, my gaze falling on my hand. I moved my fingers and watched the stone catch the light. I really loved when that happened. “That usually means something.”

“A man can coexist with jewelry without imploding,” he said, his hand suddenly there. With mine. On the table. His fingers touched the ornamented band. “So how do you want to play this out, then?”

My gaze lifted, falling back on him. “What do you meanhow?”

“Your exes.” Matthew’s fingers skimmed over my skin now, his eyes still cast down. “You wanted to talk about me. So am I on good terms with the idea of them, or do I want to rip their heads off?”

My mouth parted in surprise. Or maybe it was the way the pad of his thumb was still playing around with the ring, my finger, my hand, sending waves of goose bumps up and down my arms. “I don’t know, Matthew. Are you the jealous, possessive type?”

“Yes.” His brows met in thought. “I can be. But I’m easily swayed to be nice and proper.” He interlaced our fingers, and my heart tripped, tumbling down. “Do you have me wrapped around your pinky, Josie?”

The skin under my blouse flushed. Belly. Back. Arms. It all lit up as a red-hot sensation climbed up my wrist and traveled all the way to the tips of my ears.

We were holding hands.

Which we already had. Many times. Too often, for what we were, perhaps. But we could touch. Touching was part of the rules. Touching was fine. “Yes.” I swallowed. “You’re wrapped around my pinky all right. Tangled up in there like a—”

Matthew moved, bringing our joined hands down, under mychair. He pulled at it—with me on it—and dragged it all the way to his side in one swift motion. “Like a what,” he said, his words now falling on my temple.

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