Page 49 of The Sea-Mist Cottage Inn
I could have left it there, but Roman had given me an opening to say something truly relevant to us, whatever ‘us’ might be, and my emotional pump was fully primed at the moment, so I went ahead and continued my firehose of disclosure.
“But he was controlling, and I didn’t see it until he was gone. I’d fallen in love with the first man who showed me love, and when he wanted to take care of me, I gave over to that completely. Not until he was dead and I was left to untangle and try to understand what our whole life was built on did I see how unstable his care actually was—and I failed him, too. He carried a burden of worry and secrets that must have been exhausting, and I didn’t even know.”
Roman reacted to that last bit with something like a flinch—a twitch of his head and a quick narrowing of his eyes. It was enough that I asked, “What?”
“You’re blaming yourself for not knowing what he didn’t tell you.”
“No. I’m blaming myself for not being curious, for not letting him know he could share his worries with me.”
“But he could have shared with you? If he had, you would have listened and tried to help?”
“Of course.” And that was true; I wasn’t afraid of hardship, and I’d thought we were partners.
“Leo. Then it was on him to trust you enough to share.” He let go of my hand and cupped my cheek instead. “Whatever this is between us, whatever it becomes, I make you that promise: I trust you enough to share my burdens. Will you trust me with yours?”
Staring into Roman’s eyes, feeling his warm hand on my face, in my hair, I realized what had happened here. My firehose of recollection hadn’t been merely a dump-a-thon. Roman’s questioning hadn’t been morbid curiosity. It was all directly related to the reason I’d shown up here tonight in the first place.
The whole thing was my apology for my reaction upon seeing him grilling with Wyatt. And Roman was now telling me not merely that I was forgiven, but that I was understood.
He understood me, and he was ready to share our burdens together.
He trusted me, and I could trust him.
I wanted to tell him yes, I trusted him. I wanted to find the words that would convey how entirely earthshaking it was for that to be true. But no words would come. So instead, I framed his face in my hands and kissed him.
For a few seconds, the kiss was gentle—not hesitant, not light, but slow. A tender coda to my aria of trauma. Then Romanbroke away with a gasp. With his forehead resting against mine, he whispered, “I want you, Leo. I want to be close.” He kissed my forehead, my temple, my cheek, my ear. “I think about you every minute.”
I didn’t know if he was inviting me to his bed right then, or if he was telling me he wanted a deeper relationship, or both, or something else entirely. Not knowing how to ask—it was like I’d used up my reserve of words—and emotionally amped and extremely turned on, I told him instead with my body. I took hold of his head again and kissed him. And this time, it wasn’t gentle or light or slow.
Comprehending the meaning of my response, Roman deepened the kiss even more as he wrapped his arms tightly around me. Then he did something that to this day is in my top three most romantic things that have ever happened to me: he stood, bringing me with him, so I came off my chair and was held aloft in his arms, my feet off the ground.
When he turned and headed back to the house, still kissing me, I knew where we were going.
And I trusted him to get me there safely.
WE DIDN’T MAKE IT TOhis bedroom right away. We made it only as far as the kitchen.
Roman carried me with seeming ease up the porch steps, and he managed to work the door open without putting me down, and with only minor interruptions to our kiss. But all that grace took effort, and when he tried to kick the door closed again, his grip around me slipped until my feet were on the floor.
“Oops, sorry,” he chuckled against my mouth.
Chuckling with him, I whispered, “It’s okay. You don’t have to carry me the whole way.”
“Oh, I’m not done yet,” he said and lifted me again, this time to set me on the table. “This is just the first stop.” He grew serious, gazing into my eyes, brushing my bangs to the side. “You want this?”
I set my fingers on his lips, not to shush him but to feel the warm plush of his skin. “I want this.”
He kissed my fingertips, sending little thrills of sensation up my arm. “It’s not too soon, too fast?”
I didn’t answer right away, and I let my gaze slip away from his eyes. Itwassoon; itwasfast.
As complicated as losing Micah had been, as angry and betrayed as I’d felt while my funeral dress still hung on the door of my closet, waiting for the dry cleaners, I had loved him deeply and mourned painfully. I don’t know if there’s a right time to be ready to move on from that, but I do know that a couple of weeks earlier, I’d been sure I was nowhere near ready to be with anyone again. I’d been fairly sure there was a good chance I wouldneverwant to be with anyone again.
So yes, it was soon. It was fast.
Buttoosoon?Toofast?
“I don’t mind going slower,” he told me when I was quiet long enough to burden the silence with meaning. Lifting my chin on his finger so my eyes met his again, he added, “We go at your pace.”
