Page 59 of Fumbled Into Love

“People change. Their desires, their dreams, what they want in life, it’s not concrete. I wasn’t sure I ever wanted to get married, but I couldn’t imagine not being Jack’s wife,” Maren says softly.

I mull over Maren’s point.

People can change, I believe that. But I know Deon. I’ve uncovered slivers of the trauma he carries from his last relationship, and I will not beg anyone to choose me—ever. It’s a rule I made for myself.

As the saying goes, ‘If they wanted to, they would’.

Deon Adams is not an exception to my rule or the saying. Wanting to sleep with someone is far different than wanting to date them, to have a real relationship with them, to build a life with them.

I know this, and I’m okay with that.

At least, that’s what I’m going to tell myself.

“He doesn’t want to date or have a relationship. I respect his decision.”

Eric drops the bill, and before Sawyer can protest, Maren’s card is out of her wallet, and Eric is swooping back to the table.

They definitely practiced that maneuver. It was executed far too well to be a coincidence.

“Regardless,” she says as she puts on her coat, and Sawyer and I follow her out of the restaurant, “I’m glad you ripped hispants. I have many logistical questions, but I think they can wait until I don’t have a grant proposal due.”

I stop in my tracks as an unmistakable pair of shoulders fills my vision. Broad, corded shoulders pulling against a thin workout shirt. Shoulders I ran my fingers along on Saturday.

“Deon?”

He spins, a smile pulling his lips upward as I awkwardly stand in the entryway of GameChangers.

What is he doing here?

“Oh my God,” Sawyer whispers beneath her breath.

Sawyer squares her shoulders, and I stand rooted in terror that she’s going to mention any part of our lunch conversation. The deal. The orgasm. The fact I have a crush on him, and I shouldn’t. Doesn’t matter what she says, all of it is embarrassing.

“Hey, Deon,” she says, walking right past him. Once his back faces her, she turns and mouths,we aretotallytalking about this later, then disappears up the stairs to her office.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, meeting him halfway as he stalks toward me. I pause, unsure of what to do or say or where to put my hands. Do we touch in public? Are we pretending he didn’t eat me out two nights ago with such intensity I questioned my existence in the universe?

Before I rot my brain contemplating my hand placement, Deon drags me into a hug, and I sink into the embrace. Hegives wonderful, comforting hugs like the human version of a weighted blanket.

“I wanted to see you,” he admits, murmuring the confession against my skin.

He wanted to seeme?

Well, fuck. I can feel my heart expanding like the Grinch at the end of the movie.

“What?”

“We’ve barely seen each other since Saturday. I had an afternoon free and thought we could talk…” he trails off, voice growing unsure.

“Oh,” I choke out. I avoid touching my face, though the fiery sensation is a dead giveaway I am sporting the world’s worst blush.

“Are you busy?” Deon asks, rubbing his neck as I peel myself from his chest.

“No?” The answer comes out as a question.

I’m unsteady.

I didn’t expect to return to work and find him standing in the lobby, nor did I expect him to look so god-damn good while he’s standing.

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