Page 46 of Cold as Stone
Lee reaches for my hands, his touch grounding me. “Can’t real be good?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “I’ve spent so long protecting myself, building walls. I don’t know how to just… be happy.”
“Maybe we figure it out together.”
Something in his voice makes me look up, really look at him. There’s vulnerability there I’ve never seen before.
“What are you most afraid of?” I ask.
He’s quiet for a long moment, his thumbs tracing over my knuckles. “Becoming my father. Caring so much about someone that losing them breaks something in me that may never heal.”
I wince. “Your mother?”
He shakes his head. “Emma. He loves us more than he ever loved her. Whatever was between them soured long before she and Emma went to New York.”
I hesitate. “I’m afraid of turning into my mother. I’m terrified of needing someone—or something—so much that I lose myself completely.”
“The alcohol?”
I nod. “I think being behind the bar gives me a sense of control. I definitely need a therapist.”
We both smile at my half-assed joke.
“Come here.” He pulls me gently into his side. My head finds his shoulder and his arm wraps around me, steady and warm. His fingers drift up to my hair, tangling lightly in the strands and combing them back in soft, absent strokes.
“I’m not going to lie, Kya. I’ve spent my whole adult life avoiding relationships,” he says quietly. “I watched my dad fall apart. Watched him try to hold the family and club together while dealing with his own pain. And I swore I’d never put myself in that position. Never care about someone so much that losing them could destroy me.”
“But you do care,” I say softly. “About the club and your family.”
He looks at me with an expression so raw it makes my chest ache. “Yeah. Turns out I’m pretty shit at keeping promises.”
I smile. “That I can’t believe.”
His fingers tangle in my hair, gently gliding through the strands.
“If we do this, what do you see our life like?” I ask, curious.
He’s quiet for a beat, then murmurs against my temple, “Morning coffee together talking about our days. Your feet in my lap while you scroll on your phone and pretend not to watch the game in the evenings.”
I smile. He continues, voice low and rough now.
“Fights about whose turn it is to do dishes… and then making up on the kitchen counter.”
I laugh softly, and he leans in, his nose brushing mine.
“Coming home to you covered in paint or sawdust or whatever mess you’ve decided to fix that day, and knowing you’re mine. Waking up tangled around you, every damn morning. Falling asleep the same way every night.”
His hands frame my face, thumbs brushing over my cheekbones. “I want a partner who’ll listen to the hard shit, and stand with me. I want you to fall in love with the club, knowing you’ll have a place with them as much as you do with me.”
He leans in. “And yeah,” he finishes, lips brushing my cheek, “hot sex. Lots of it. But that’s the bonus, not the reason.”
I’m not sure if it’s the words or the way he says them, but a lump lodges in my throat. Some deep ache of hope I didn’t realize I was still carrying.
“You really think we could have that?” I whisper.
“Yeah, baby.”
“Even though we’re both terrified?”
