Page 16 of Give My Everything
My lips part in surprise. Was that…some form of an apology?
“I can’t promise I won’t ever do it again,” he adds, his lips quirking up at one side. “Habits are a hard thing to create and even harder to break. But…I’ll try not to make choices for you again.”
My shoulders fall.
I wasn’t expecting him to feel remorse or regret, let alone put it on display for me to see.
Part of me would prefer he just stay the arrogant asshole I assumed he was. It’s easier to be angry at someone when they’re a total douchebag.
But the other part of me is thankful that I’ve gotten to see this part of him, this somewhat soft and feeling part of Ben Calloway that I didn’t know existed.
Especially if I’m going to be…marrying him.
Because I am.
I step forward, bridging the gap between us and coming up to his side.
The power he radiates is intoxicating. How have I never noticed it before?
Maybe because my memories of Ben are from high school, seeing him on occasion when he was home from college and dressed down in something casual. He always seemed a bit, I don’t know, nerdier? Is that the right word? He seemed nerdier when I was younger.
Any recent interactions with Ben have been few and far between—an afternoon grabbing lunch with my brothers at Bennie’s, an evening when I might notice him at a society function.
Come to think of it, I can only really think of a few instances when I’ve seen or talked to Ben over the past five years, most recently being when Lucas had a group of us over for the 4th of July.
It makes sense that he’d be somewhat different now, that I would be aware of him in a different way.
And I am definitely aware of him.
Even now, my brain feels like it’s short-circuiting as I stand inches away, smelling his cologne and looking up into those beautiful blue eyes.
“How long have you had the beard?” I ask, hoping to lighten the tone and shift the conversation away from something so mentally taxing.
Ben scrubs at the carefully manicured beard growing on his face, something he never used to have, always opting for that stern, clean-shaven look.
“About two weeks,” he replies. “You like it?”
I nod, lifting my hand touch it, my fingers stroking lightly through the coarse hair on his cheek and chin.
“You seem less…”
“Severe?” he offers, his lips curved in something resembling a smile.
I grin in return. “I was going to say intense, or maybe intimidating. But severe works.”
“I’m not intimidating.”
I shrug, not wanting to press it any further. How do you explain to a man how intimidation feels when you’re a woman who’s been through what I have?
“So…we’re doing this, then?” he prompts, breaking the silence.
I blink, my eyes searching his face for some kind of confirmation that I can trust him, that I can trust who he is and what he wants and how he’s going to treat me.
But that isn’t something you can necessarily see in someone’s face, in their eyes, in the way they’re dressed or how they speak.
You have to wait and allow them to prove it to you, with their actions. That’s the intimidating part—that I have to choose to trust him even though I’m not certain he deserves it.
“Yeah,” I finally say. “Yes, let’s get married.”
