Tatum slipped inside as I toed my heels off and sat on the couch. It was decently comfortable, but the color was all wrong. I could get it reupholstered in something lighter. Brighter. It would make a world of difference.
Tatum returned, and I pulled my feet up on the couch, tucking them beneath me.
“What’cha got there,” I asked as he slipped out of the sliding door and rounded the fire pit.
He sat, his long legs and tree trunk thighs dominating most of the couch. “Figured this’ll just go bad if you don’t help me finish it off.” He held the half-gone bottle of Syrah up for my approval.
“That’d be a shame,” I said, picking up my glass for him to top it off.
He set the bottle down and draped a sinuous arm across the back of the couch. His fingers grazed my hair. I couldn’t help but close my eyes and savor the contact. It had been so long since I’d felt such a magnetic touch.
“What do you think we’re gonna find at the bottom of that bottle?” I asked quietly, leaning into his touch.
“The truth.”
“The truth of what?”
“Maybe what I want,” he said, downing a gulp. Tatum was built like a refrigerator. He could have easily tackled the entire bottle himself and barely felt a buzz. “Maybe who you want to be.”