Page 43 of Dirty Game
The thought makes me laugh—bitter and short.
Twenty-five years old and googling intimacy like a teenager.
But that's what I am in this arena, isn't it?
Inexperienced. Innocent. Ignorant.
The search results are overwhelming.
Clinical articles that make everything sound mechanical.
Romance novels that make everything sound impossible.
Forums where people discuss things I don't have words for yet.
But there's one thread that catches my attention: "How to know if you're ready."
The responses vary, but one stands out: "You're ready when the fear of not trying becomes greater than the fear of trying."
I close the laptop, processing the words.
Am I afraid of Varrick? Yes.
But not in the way I was afraid of Marco or Uncle Enzo or Tommy Fitzgerald.
Thisisdifferent.
This is the fear of falling with no guarantee that someone will catch you.
The fear of wanting something you don't understand.
The fear of being vulnerable with someone whose capacity for violence is matched only by their capacity for unexpected gentleness.
It's the kind of fear that feels like anticipation.
A soft knock at my door interrupts my thoughts.
I know it's him before I open it—something about the careful rhythm, the pause between knocks like he's giving me time to prepare or refuse.
He's put on a shirt, but his hair is still damp, and he's carrying a tray.
Because of course he is. Even after what just happened, he's making sure I eat.
"I'm not hungry," I say.
"Liar." He enters anyway, sets the tray on my dresser. It's simple tonight—soup, bread, water. Comfort food. "Eat."
"Is this what we do now? Pretend that didn't happen?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
He turns to face me, and the look in his eyes makes my breath catch. "Because if we don't pretend, if we acknowledge what's happening here, I'm going to do something we'll both regret."
"What if I don't want to pretend?"
"You don't know what you want."
