Page 135 of Texting, Trouble & Touchdowns
I push the plate aside and stand.
“Come with me.”
I don’t mean for it to sound like a line, but there’s this charge low in my chest—tight, restless—and it won’t let me back down. I wrap an arm around her waist and ease her into my lap. Herthighs bracket mine, warm and soft, and I cup her face like she’s both a dare and a lifeline I didn’t know I needed.
“I don’t know what the fuck you did to me.” My thumbs trace along her cheeks, slow and sure. “This is all you. Me wanting you next to me. Wanting to kiss you until time forgets we’re here. Wanting to tell you things I’ve never said out loud. Wanting to fall asleep next to you and not feel like I’m the last one left.”
Her eyes go glassy. Not some dramatic, tear-streaked movie version—just a woman trying her best to remain composed, even as her edges begin to fray.
“It’s fucking terrifying,” I whisper. “But I want to figure it out. With you.”
She swallows hard, voice barely audible. “What if it breaks me?”
That stops me. Just for a beat. Then I kiss her forehead, her nose, the soft curve of her cheekbone. Gentle. Careful. Almost as if I’m learning a language she’s never let anyone speak before.
“Who hurt you, Liv?”
She exhales. Just a breath. Nothing more.
“There’s a reason you flinch when things get too real. A reason you keep your armor laced so tight. What happened, baby?”
She leans back just enough to see me. Not far enough to bolt.
“Love hurts,” she says, her voice almost . . . gone. “It ruins people. I saw it with my parents. One morning, my dad just… decided my mom wasn’t it anymore. No warning. No big fight. Just gone. For someone younger. Someone shinier. Someone with fewer laugh lines and no history.”
Her gaze drops to my chest like it’s safer than looking me in the eye.
“For years, Mom tried to make sense of it. She blamed herself for not being enough. And I—I don’t want that. I don’t want to love someone so much that they can wreck me.”
My ribs feel too tight.
I lift her chin so she has to meet my eyes. “You won’t be her.”
“You can’t promise that.”
“No,” I admit. “But I can tell you this: I’m scared too.”
Her brows lift slightly, eyes wide.
“I was married, Liv. To someone I thought had my back. Someone who smiled for the cameras and told me what I wanted to hear . . . until the whole thing became a business strategy. Ingrid didn’t care about love. She cared about leverage. About being the wife of a Crawford. About what she could take with her when she left.”
I rub the back of my neck, jaw clenched, struggling to breathe past it.
“After that, I figured maybe every woman wanted something. Status. Security. Headlines. Not love. Definitely not me.”
She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t flinch. Just listens, like she knows how hard it is to say this part.
“But then you came crashing in,” I murmur. “Didn’t care about my name. Didn’t care about my contract. You roasted my toast, stole my dog, and took my shirts. And somewhere between your sarcasm and that first kiss that made me forget my damn name . . . I started believing again.”
She blinks. And I swear she forgets to breathe for a full second.
“I’m not asking you to fall.” I pause. “I’m not asking for declarations or a grand plan. But if you’re scared . . . good. So am I. And maybe that’s how we know it’s real.”
Her bottom lip trembles.
So I kiss her.
Not because I’m trying to win her.
