Page 14 of Marrying the Gardener
Chuckling, Kaleb knits his brows and shakes his head. “You look beautiful. I just wasn’t expecting you to lookthismuch prettier.” Sweeping down, he scoops me into his arms, rocking me against his chest. Breath leaves him as he looks me over, and apprehension stings in my throat.
It’sthateffortless for him to lift me?
He’s relaxed.
Calm.
And I hate to admit it, but without a weapon, I don’t think I can take him.
“Easy,” he murmurs. “You own me, Rose-red. I’m only pretending I own you. At your word, I’m on my knees, so there’s nothing to fear.” He touches a kiss to my forehead; it is starkly warm against my flesh. “You have your keys?” he asks.
Rigid, I lift the fob.
He knocks my door closed with his hip. “Do you need a moment?”
“A moment to…”
“Stop calculating exactly how you’d get out of my arms and throw me over your shoulder.”
I wince, because I cannot be that easy to read. Being that easy to read right now would ruineverything.
“And,” he hedges, cautious, “to make kissing me look natural.”
My stomach dips.
“You can focus on my neck the whole time, if that’s easier.”
I look at his neck—the broad column of muscle twining down to his built shoulders—and wonder if I can really do this, if Ireallyhave what it takes to make any of this convincing. I know I’ve been acting my entire life as the insipid airhead my father thinks all women are because whenever I’d try to be anything else, the result was alwayspain…but…
I have never played a role like this before.
I have always embraced ditzy innocence to avoid so much as grazing the kind of relationship I’m now asking for. Somehow, until now, I’ve convinced my father that I’m too immature to even consider marrying off.
Everything I have ever done has been to protect myself.
But this feels a whole lot like climbing into a cage with a wolf.
Kaleb’s gentle expression tames, eyes widening, and his lips part before he says, “Ms. Nightingale…do you have no experience with men?”
My teeth grit. No experience withmen? He has got to be kidding.
I haveloads. I know that men are pigs and monsters and idiots. I know that they don’t believe in kindness, consideration, or empathy. I have spent far too much timeexperiencingmen, and so I have decided that Ineverwant to submit myself to them any more than I have had to.
Which means, no, I have never—ever—touched one willinglybefore.
Glaring, I meet his eyes.
He utters a curse. “Okay. Well. I’m glad you told me.”
I have not, actually, told him anything. I am merely glaring daggers into his body. Which, I realize, is not helpful, so I fight to relax my face. “Sorry. I’ll be fine. I’m determined.”
“Mm,” he hums, absently. “I know you are. I’m not worried.” He bares his throat to me. “And you’re not shy, are you? Even without any experience.”
No, I would not under normal circumstances consider myselfshy.
But these aren’t normal circumstances, now are they?
My lungs fill with his cologne as I press my lips to the solid muscle of his throat and kiss.
