Page 115 of Sinful Like Us
Very deeply, Thatcher tells me, “When they were your age, they were figuring out being in their twenties and in love—you’re allowed this part.”
I cage breath. “This part?”
“Of life,” he clarifies. “The stomach-flipping, head-scratching moments where you feel like everything is going off the tracks.”
Curiosity ignites me. “You’ve been here before?”
He lifts his shoulders. “You’re the only woman I’ve ever loved,” he reminds me. “But I’ve had to right a lot of wrong-tracked trains in my early twenties.”
I remember that we’re in this together, and I can’t imagine experiencing this part of life with another man. His patience and respect constantly boosts me into another stratosphere.
He deserves better than me.
I push down that hurtful voice in my ear.
I’m amazing too. I’m triumphant and beautiful, and I deserve his love.
I have so much to offer him. Love (that I’m withholding), Strength (that keeps vacillating), Great Sex (sure, there’s that).
Slapping aside my insecurities, I tell him the good I feel. “I’m really glad it’s you who’s experiencing this part with me.” I smile at a thought. “If I had a glass slipper, I’d put it on your foot right about now.”
His mouth curves upward. “You choose me?”
“Oui.” I breathe. “Toujours.”Always.
Fear tries to stab me. My shoulders bind and my back arches a little. We look into one another, and though his eyes never stray from mine, I can feel him studying my stiff posture. He’s a perceptive man, which I love.
Wind whistles, and our fingers nearly brush. A strand of hair slips out from behind his ear and caresses his cheek. He tucks back the brown tendril, then swivels a knob on the radio. He straightens some and speaks hushed in the mic.
“Is everything okay?” I ask.
He nods, muscles flexed. “Tony thinks we’re standing too close.”
My brows jump. “Do we need to back away?”
“No.” His eyes devour me. “I told him that you’re cold.”
I begin to smile. “Thank God for the weather.”
His lips lift, then lower, and lines crease his forehead. “I just need confirmation about something.”
“Of course.” I inhale, more on edge.
“Did you like that I took care of you last night?”
“Yes,” I say so suddenly and from deep in my core. “So much so. More than justlike, even.”
He nods a few times, his shoulders relaxing, and then asks, “How much do you remember?”
I file through my hazy memories. “Most everything in the pub. Very little afterwards.” I squint. “I think the last moment I can picture is you pressing a washcloth on my forehead.” What I’d give to be a fly on the wall to Black-Out (SOS) Jane.
He stares off for a moment.
I peel a flyaway hair off my wind-chapped lips. “Did I do or say anything mortifying last night?”
He shakes his head, about to speak but his phone rings. Checking the Caller ID, his expression hardens. “It’s Banks.”
I hug my binder closer. “Shouldn’t he be on-duty?”
