Page 72 of The Wild Card
The words sound heavier than I meant for them to, and when Collin’s gaze clashes with mine, I wish I could roll them back. But I can’t quite manage to find my voice.
Collin clears his throat and hands my phone back. “There. I added the app so you can set up your account. Winnie actually built Neighborly. She sold it off but retained ownership of the Sheet Cake location. She likes the power trip of being the moderator. Deleting comments and all that. But it will come in handy just in case anyonedoessuspect anything.”
Winnie knows how to build apps? She’s gorgeous with this whole pin-up vibe going on. The tattoos I caught a glimpse of on her upper arms somehow paired really well with her ultrafeminine clothing choices. And apparently, she’s smart to boot—building apps and helping James run Dark Horse.
I swear, the entirety of the Graham family is intimidating. Including the women they’ve married.
I haven’t met Lindy yet, but I’ve heard a lot about her from Harper. Lindy apparently raised Jo—her sister’s baby—from the time she was an infant. While Lindy wasalsotaking care of her mom, who had early onset dementia. All while writing articles under a pen name and supporting them on that income—before she married Pat, who swooped in, married Lindy, and now makes taking care of them his full-time job.
I don’twantto love the idea of a guy Cinderella-storying me. Especially when part of the way my dad controlled me was through finances. He could have paid for my college. I’m pretty sure he paid for Chase’s. But I think he knew that if I had student debts, I would be in financial straits for years, and thus, dependent on him.
So, I have an aversion to men creating avenues of financial dependence. I want to stand on my own.
But at the same time, the idea of letting a man who really loves me take care of me—financially and otherwise—sounds pretty great.
“Does everything look good?” Collin asks, leaning closer to tap the pen on the legal pad.
I tug the pen from his hand and write the date up on the top of the page. I’m not sure why. Just to see my handwriting on the paper somewhere, maybe.
“I think so.”
“Did we cover all the bases? Is anything missing?”
There is actually a very large chunk we haven’t discussed, and I’m not sure how it got overlooked. Other than the fact that it’s awkward to talk about. “Um.”
“What is it?”
I can feel the flush creeping up my neck to my cheeks. Again. “Do you think we should, um, be a little more specific and detailed about the physical things?”
When I hazard a glance at Collin, the look he’s giving me makes the flush burn hotter. “You want to get specific and detailed about the physical part of our relationship?”
I wish I could laugh and smack him with a pillow, throwing us back into the teasing banter we’ve maintained through most of the conversation. But with Collin sitting so close, his eyes darkening to a stormy blue, I can’t. Especially not when his gaze drops to my lips.
“It would probably be smart,” I say, my voice breathy. “Just so we’re prepared if we need to show physical affection in public. Hand-holding or … anything else.”
I don’t say the wordkissing, but I swear, it’s swirling in the air between us like pixie dust.
Collin scoots a little closer. “I’m down for some preparation.”
His words sound loaded. Heavy with meaning. And his gaze is still on my lips. Now I’m staring athismouth, the full lips now more prominent without the beard. They areverykissable lips.
“Or maybe,” Collin says, voice low and rough, “what we need in order to prepare is some good, old-fashioned practice.”
“P-practice?”
He reaches one hand out, brushing a strand of my hair back, his fingers trailing down my neck. “Practice,” he repeats. “You know, so that if we have to kiss in public, it doesn’t look like the first time we’ve ever done it.”
“That makes sense,” I whisper, feeling every nerve in my body tighten like a coiled spring. “We wouldn’t want people to think it’s the first time we’ve kissed.”
“No,” he says. “We wouldn’t want that.”
Collin’s fingers slide back, threading into the hair at the nape of my neck, and a little sigh escapes my lips. He leans forward, and my eyelids flutter closed, ready and waiting for?—
His phone suddenly blares to life, making us both jump back as “The Final Countdown” plays. Our gazes meet for a second, and I wonder if my expression matches his—dazed, with dilated pupils and heavy lids.
I can’t tell if he’s relieved or disappointed by the interruption, but he does grab the phone, groaning as he reads the texts coming through.
With a heavy sigh, he stands and holds out his hand. I take it and let him tug me to my feet.
