Page 122 of Meet Me In The Dark
Celeste scoffs and sips her oat latte. “Does she even realize you’d enjoy that?”
“Oh, sweetheart, I’d weld the chains myself.”
She rolls her eyes and kicks off her shoes with an exaggerated sigh. “Mind if I put my feet up?”
“Whatever makes you comfortable.”
She shifts, curling toward the door with her knees pulled to her chest and arms wrapped around them. She looks small and fragile like this. The wave of protectiveness that floods me is nearly physical, and my grip tightens on the wheel.
I glance over just in time to see her eyes close, her face still pinched, before it softens into sleep.
Jesus.
She trusts me enough to sleep here when she’s this vulnerable, and fuck, I want to deserve that.
I want to be the one who shows up. The one she can lean on when the pain is too much. The one who knows how to fight this with her, not just fuck her into forgetting it.
I flick on her seat heater and drive slower than I have in my life. Every bump feels like an insult. I signal every turn. I drive like a chauffeur instead of a man who owns half this skyline, because she’s in my car. Sleeping. Hurting. Trusting me not to make it worse.
It’s terrifying.
I rest my hand lightly on her thigh as I drive.
“I’ve got you,” I murmur, even though she can’thear me.
Thirty-Eight
Celeste
“Celeste.” Julian’s voice rouses me from sleep, the deep timbre warm enough to soften the jolt of waking. “We’re here.”
The scent of saltwater and the slow, steady crash of waves reach me before I even open my eyes.
I straighten, blink away the haze, and squint through the open car door.
“Wow.”
The beach house stretches along the coast, merging modern design with seaside charm. Sleek glass windows reflect the sunlight onto polished surfaces. Every angle seems crafted to highlight the oceanview.
Julian grips my chin and searches my eyes. “You good?”
I nod because I don’t trust my voice.
Three days ago, I thought I’d hallucinated him at my bedside. I hoped I had, at least.
No such luck.
He’s a persistent bastard.
“I have bubbles,” he says, earning a weak laugh from me. The sound vibrates in my chest, tugging at muscles I didn’t know were still sore.
Inside, it’s undeniably Julian, with rich hardwood floors, clean lines, and recessed lighting. A sunken living room with floor-to-ceiling windows opens up to an endless sweep of ocean.
Everything here is masculine but not cold. Intentional yet lived-in.
A place that feels like him.
Before I can take it all in, he’s guiding me up the wide staircase, slowing down when my steps drag.
