Page 27 of Texting My Valentine

A tremble moves through his hulking body. For a tiny moment, I’m terrified—not that I think he’s going to hurt me. It’s how protective and intense he becomes. I want more of it. Badly.

I need to be careful.

“There wasn’t alast girl,” he snaps.

I smile and laugh. See? Keeping it casual is back on the menu. “You don’t really expect me to believe that.”

I let go of one of his hands, and turn, intent on walking again. He pauses for a moment, my right hand in his, like he’s not going to let me. Like instead, he’ll pull me toward him, crush our bodies together, and let me feel those hulking muscles again.

Stubbornly, I pull away and walk on, ignoring my desires.Why?Cleo challenges in my head.Just throw yourself at him!

“Do you?” I go on. “You can’t expect me to believe you’re some chaste monk who stays away from women.”

“I’ve been waiting for the right woman.” He looks at me meaningfully when I turn to look at him.

“So you believe in soulmates?” I put a heavy dose of sarcasm into my voice.

“Maybe not soulmates. But I believe in true love. Even if I’ve spent too damn long lying to myself and everybody around me about it, it might make me a fool for still believing in it, but I do.”

We stop near the lapping waves, the sound of the bars muted by distance.

His eyes are suddenly serious, starlight reflected in them. There’s something about his penetrating look that’s verynotcasual.

“Why does it make you a fool?” I ask.

“It’s depressing. I don’t want to ruin the mood.”

I grin. “Touché.” It’s what I said about my poems. “But you want to tell me, so tell me.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Do I, Tori? You think you can read this stranger so easily, huh?”

He’s trying to make this into something it’s not, something it can never be. “It’s not that deep,” I tell him.

“Strange thing for a poet to say. Perhaps you’re just a woman of contradictions.”

“I want to know,” I admit. “Because suddenly, you looked…”

“Go on,” he whispers.

It’s like he knows I don’t want to say this, any of it, veer too close to anything real, and voice something I’ve pushed away my whole life. “Like you’re ready to take out your rage on the world. Like you’re almost done hoping. Like you didn’t believe…”

I stop just in time. I was going to say,Didn’t believe in happily ever afters before tonight.What. The. Heck. Is. Wrong. With. Me?

He smooths a hand through his glistening silver hair. It causes the fabric of his shirt to tighten on his biceps, his sculpted body so utterly tempting. “I can’t believe I’m going to tell you this but screw it. You should know what you’re getting into.”

I want to tell him that I’m not getting into anything. But I can’t force the words—the lie.

“I had a long-term girlfriend once. I thought we had a good relationship and the same goals. I was working my way through medical school, determined to make my way in the world instead of working for the family company my parents left behind. I guess she wanted more, so she left me for my brother, and they had a kid together after. They both died in a car accident two years ago, leaving Elliot an orphan.”

He speaks mechanically, with no hint of heartache. It must be a defense mechanism. Annoyingly, I find myself wanting to peel back his layers to get to the pain beneath.

“Whoa,” I mutter.

“It’s heavy,” he says, nodding. “Too heavy for a night like this.”

“Yeah,” I say. “I mean—no, thanks for telling me. But…”

What am I doing?

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