Page 82 of Deep In Love
She hesitates before nodding.
“When we first met, I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I would hear your laugh in the hallway and chase the sound. I would try to convince Dan to host co-advisor meetings so I could spend time with you. You had cast a spell on me, so you became my witch.Mi bruja.Cursing me to fall for you all over again every time you would offer me a smile.”
She’s quiet in response to my confession, but her eyes have always been expressive, a window into her emotions, and right now, the surprise in them is unmistakable. They say everything she can’t,and I don’t need to hear the words to know my answer was the last thing she expected.
“Mi bruja,” she parrots, trying to roll theroff her tongue. Once, twice, three times she repeats the endearment, whispering it to herself and growing more confident with each pass of the words.
A surprised laugh tumbles out of me as she darts in and steals a kiss.
“I like it. The nickname, I mean.” She pauses. “Well, I used to hate it, but now…now I like it. You can keep using it,” she declares.
“I’m glad you approve.”
She leans into my chest, her head falling to rest on my shoulder. “It makes me feel a bit bad that I call you an annoying asshole.”
Now would be a good time to fess up that her nickname doesn’t mean what she thinks it does, but I can’t do it. I fucking love how she calls me cariñowith that shit-eating grin like it’s the funniest thing she’s ever said.
It will undoubtedly bite me in the ass when she figures it out, but fuck it, I’m not telling her.
I hum, ending the conversation before she gets bit by the inquisitive bug and asks a few too many questions. She’s a scientist, after all. Curiosity runs in her veins.
We sit in a comfortable silence, listening to the waves crash against the vessel and staring up at the night sky, full of twinkling stars. I snake my arm around her shoulder, tugging her tighter toward off the creeping chill. Her bare skin is cool, and I lay a palm down on the bare flesh to warm her up.
Half a dozen scars press against my hand, and my thumb swipes over a raised one beneath her collarbone. She tracks my hand as I jump from one to another.
I haven’t asked how she received them, and I told myself I never would. The origin of her wounds is not a story you can ask for; it’s knowledge that needs to be given, offered because she trusts meenough to hold some of the weight for her. Because that’s what these scars are—a heavy weight she’s held on her own.
She scans the night sky, lost somewhere in her mind. When she returns to reality, tears line her lashes.
“I was driving home to surprise my dad for his birthday,” she says, and I hold my breath, afraid if I make a rapid movement she’ll close up like a sea anemone. “It was snowy, but…but I had all-wheel drive. I thought I was fine.”
Her skin is pale, but she raises her chin and straightens her shoulders.
“Black ice had formed on the road,” she continues, the words choppy. “I hit a patch, careened off the road, and slammed into a tree. The force of the impact shattered the windshield inward and crushed the front of the car.”
She struggles to breathe, pulling in shallow, jagged breaths. I’m in awe of her, but she doesn’t need to give me this—not if it hurts her.
“It’s all right,” I coo. “You don’t have to—”
“I-I want to.” She lifts a trembling hand to palm my cheek. “You’re worth the fear.”
I cover her hand with mine, giving her as much time as she needs. There are few words to express what it means to me that she trusts me enough to share her trauma—to take a leap of faith and believe I’ll hold her confession with care.
She removes her hand to touch the scar cutting across her brow.
“When the car hit the tree and the windshield shattered, my head whipped forward from the impact. This is from a large shard of glass.” Her finger lingers on the bottom of the scar, the most ragged section, before swiping away a rogue tear. “I was on a highway in the middle of nowhere, and the hospital I went to was understaffed, so a medical resident stitched the laceration closed. That’s why it’s so ugly.” She pauses, then almost inaudibly, she adds, “I didn’t always look like this.”
Charlie pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, staunch belief in her words, but she couldn’t be further from the truth.
“I don’t think that’s true.” I force her chin up. “I have never met anyone more beautiful than you, and I’ve never known you without the scars. They could throw a thousand people in a room, and I would look for you first, Charlie. That kind of beauty is powerful.”
She gulps but rises and straightens out her dress. Her hand hovers between us, palm faced up.
“Come back to the room with me?”
She says nothing more, but I understand the suggestion in her words, and I’m flying off the ground to take her hand. Charlie giggles loudly, but I steal the sound in a frenzied, overzealous kiss.
My heart thuds, rerouting blood to other parts of my body as her breasts press against my chest. She breaks away and drags me behind her, the picnic I planned forgotten as she picks up speed, nearly running to get back to our cabin.
