Page 114 of Crazy In Love
One of Bridger and his parents, one with him and his siblings, and one where he was sitting with Cutler and Melody on each side of him. I’d gone on Ellie Chadwick’s social media and pulled a few photos from there and had them blown up and framed.
He was silent as he studied each photo, as if he’d never seen them before. I took a bite of my cake and watched. His dark hair was a disheveled mess, and the stubble peppering his jaw was so sexy I itched to run my fingertips along it.
And then he looked up at me.
Gray eyes filled with emotion. “I love these.”
“Well, that’s part of the décor plan for this place, right? To warm it up. And family photos are going to be displayed throughout the space. I have several more for you to go through and choose from, but these three were my favorites.” I smiled as his thumb traced over the wood frame surrounding the photo with him and his niece and nephew.
“Why isn’t there a picture of you?”
“Of me?” I chuckled. “Why would I give you a photo of me?”
“I’m thinking right there,” he said, turning to look at the large wall where the mantel would be going. “I want a huge photo of you over the mantel. Preferably naked.”
“Okay,” I said, pushing my feet. “It’s time for me to go. You’ve clearly had one too many whiskeys.”
He moved to his feet quickly, standing in front of me. “Don’t go.”
“Bridger, stop.”
“Angel. I won’t stop.”
I rolled my eyes. “What do you want from me? You want another romp in the hay? Is that what this is about?”
“Is that an option?” he asked as he barked out a laugh and then held his hands up. “I’m kidding. That’s not what I’m asking for, though I wouldn’t turn it down.”
“I need to go.”
“I’m asking you to stay.” He stepped closer. “Please.”
Please? Is he serious right now?
“Why?”
He rubbed his face. “I can’t stop thinking about you.”
I couldn’t believe he was saying this. But he was drunk. He didn’t mean it. I glanced out the back door at the falling snow and blew out a breath.
“It’ll pass, Bridger.”
“Maybe I don’t want it to pass,” he said as he reached for my hand.
“You’re letting the booze talk.” I pulled my hand away and moved toward the front door, where my boots were sitting beside the entry bench. I sat down to slide them on.
“Emilia,” he said, from the other end of the hallway, his voice hard and unwavering.
“Yes?”
He stalked toward me. “This is not the booze talking. The booze is what I’ve used to cope with what I’m feeling, actually.”
I slipped one boot on over my foot, tucking my jeans inside. “What is it that you’re feeling?”
“Ever since we arrived home from Paris, I can’t get you out of my head. No matter how hard I fucking try. I think about you when I fall asleep at night and when I wake up in the morning. I’m trying so fucking hard to be professional when you’re over here, but I don’t want to be professional with you,” he said as my heart pounded so loudly in my chest I was certain he could hear it.
“But you waited to confess your feelings when you were drunk?” I asked, one brow raised. I wanted to believe him. Wanted to believe he felt the way about me that I felt about him. But I knew he was unattainable. He was the one who’d told me so.
He moved closer and dropped down to his knees, and my eyes widened. “I know I shouldn’t be telling you this, but maybe being drunk means I don’t give a fuck if it’s a bad idea. I want you to know. Regardless of what you say, you should know how I feel.”
