Page 109 of The Wrong Husband
"Don’t, Fever."
"Sorry," she chokes out, "I haven’t mentioned this to anyone else before."
Her confiding in me is a start—a sign I’m earning her trust. But the suspicion she’s still hiding something gnaws at me.
I lift our joined hands and brush my lips over her fingertips.
In time, when she’s ready, she’ll tell me the rest. Until then, I’ll be here for her, steady and unshakable.
“It means everything that you let me in like this.” I run my thumb over her wrist.
She shivers. Her gaze grows heavy. "You must think I’m crazy to cry over…something like this."
"Not at all. Your feelings matter. Never let anyone tell you otherwise or make you doubt their weight."
Some of the tension slips from her shoulders. "You’re pretty amazing, you know that?"
"I do, actually." I smirk, knowing full well that will break the tension that’s gripped the air between us, and it does.
She rolls her eyes. "And just as I was thinking you’re a real, genuine person, despite your ego."
"I am real. And genuine. And I’m your person." I cringe hearing my words. That was corny. But it seems to have done the trick, for she smiles widely.
"I’m glad you’re my person."
"Speaking of…" I pull a long rectangular box from my pocket. When I snap the lid open, the sunlight draws sparks of green from the stones in the platinum setting.
"Wow!" She stares at them. “Are those real?”
"What do you think?” I ask, amused.
"I mean, of course, they’re not imitation. But I’ve never seen anything this beautiful."
As if in a dream, she reaches out to touch them.
I snap the lid forward, so it traps her fingers.
"Ow!" She pulls her hand back, surprise flashing across her face—then she bursts out laughing.
"That was a bona fidePretty Womanmoment.”
I've never seen the movie.I did it to hear her laugh.Jesus.It’s like the pattering of raindrops on a windowpane. Like water bouncing off pebbles on its way downstream. I’d give anything to hear her laugh like that every day.
I flip open the lid. "Go on; touch it."
She reaches for it.
Once again, I shut the lid.
This time, she pulls her hand back before I can trap her fingers. “Connor!” She smacks my hand and giggles.
I burst out laughing. “Sorry, couldn’t resist. This time, I won’t stop you. In fact"—I place the box in her lap—"it’s yours."
She runs her fingers over the choker, and I watch as the stones react to her touch—warming, responding.
She lifts it to her throat, and something primitive uncoils inside me.
“Let me,” I say, rising before she can fasten it.
