Page 188 of Waiting Game

“You’re beautiful,” he assures me.

I shoot him a surprised but happy smile. “Thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me for the truth.”

Sagging on one arm, I stare at him. “You’re beautiful too.”

“Nah. I’m all scarred and shit.”

He isn’t seeking compliments, nor does he sound like his esteem has taken a hit, but it’s the first time he’s ever been in any way vulnerable about his appearance.

“Those scars were founded in strength.Courage.They show me the type of man you are.”

“What type of man is that?”

Mine.

God, the word sits on my tongue for the longest time.

“The best type,” is what I settle on.

It falls flat though.

At least, to my ears it does.

He mock-sniffles. “Spoken like my favorite romance heroine.” But he blows me a kiss in true Cole fashion—exuberantly—telling me he’s not making fun.

Chuckling, I shake my head at his antics as I snag my phone and throw myself back into bed.

That might have been a long-distance quickie, but it zapped my energy levels.

“What I want to know is when you stopped reading anything that wasn’t romance?”

“When my parents’ divorce came through. He used to beat her. I liked to escape into the happily ever after and then, once she was safe, I didn’t want to read anything that didn’t have a HEA.” As usual, he floors me, but he doesn’t give me time to respond, just asks, “Have you eaten? Romance heroines are supposed to eat.”

Spying his gimlet stare, I roll my eyes. “I’m too tired for food.”

“I never have that problem.”

“Hey?”

He arches a brow.

“Iknowthisisdumbbutdoyouwanttogotosleepwiththecamerasonsowecanpretendtobenexttoeachother?”

“Did you speed up, or was it me?”

“You don’t have a concussion. At least, I don’t think that you do.” It’s my turn to give him the stink eye. “I’ll whup that tush of yours if you have a concussion and didn’t tell me.”

“Kinky. But I don’t think I’m into that.” He hums. “Who am I kidding? I’ll try anything with you.”

My chest feels super tight at the declaration. I’m lucky I can breathe what with his earlier admission about why he only reads romance. Apart from the books I suggest for him…

When he sees I’ve gone quiet, he winks, sucks in a deep breath, and says, “Yeswecansleepwiththecamerason.” He pauses. “That reminds me of thatDr. Whoepisode?—”

That’s when I flop back into my pillows. “Of course, you’re a Whovian.”

He flashes a look at me, reads my expression, and murmurs, “I got more perfect, didn’t I?”

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