Page 125 of One More Secret

Our tongues glide and dance together, and I feel…I feel like I might melt into a pool of nothingness and everythingness.

It all feels too much…and it all feels just right.

Troy pulls away, and his eyes search mine. “Jess, where do you see things going between us?” His voice is low with the roughness that could easily flash-fire my panties to ash.

“What do you mean?”

“I like you. I like you a lot. I want to take you out on dates. And I want you to be my girlfriend.” He doesn’t vocalize the other thing he wants, but below the belt, his body is making that request very clear.

I shake my head. “I can’t, Troy.”

A bird tweets from somewhere nearby, the song almost sad and bittersweet.

“Can’t or don’t want to?” He steps away, and his brow ridges into a frown. “Is there someone else?”

“Definitely not. We barely know each other. And now that I’m going to be your employee, dating you seems…unethical.”

“We’ve known each other for two months. Most couples don’t even know each other that long before they date.”

True. My husband and I began dating shortly after I met him in a bar with my friends. I’d known nothing about him. He was a good-looking guy who bought me a drink and danced with me most of the night. I probably fell in love with him then. Before I realized he was the king of chameleons, a man who would transform into whatever you needed—until he didn’t. Until the real man—not the smoke and mirrors—emerged.

Troy and I have known each other a lot longer, but it’s still not enough time to know each other well. There’s so much about me I can’t tell him. Things even Robyn doesn’t know. I’m not interested in being in a relationship that’s built on a lie. I’ve traveled that route. And ended up abused and in prison for it.

“As for you dating the boss,” Troy adds, unaware of my whirlwind of emotions, my internal debates, “no one who works for me will give a damn about that. During work hours, you’ll just be my office assistant.”

“I-I get that. But I need time, Troy. I’m starting to pick up the pieces of my life, thanks to Robyn. I’m not ready to have a boyfriend.”

A slow breath escapes him. “Okay, I can understand and respect that. So, I guess no more kissing?” His tone isn’t flirty. It isn’t irritated. It’s neutrally optimistic.

“No. Your kisses make me feel good. Heck, your kisses make me feel. Period.”

A cocky grin lifts his mouth to one side. “Ah, so you were using me for my hot kisses?”

I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing, but I can’t prevent the smile from sneaking onto my face. “I’m definitely not using you for your kisses, Troy.” My expression sobers. “I like being with you. Can’t that be enough without putting labels on things?”

His grin straightens to a line, and he scrubs his hand along his jaw, as if he’s thinking. The smile that appears on his face after a beat sends my heart stumbling and soaring. It’s sweet and supportive and a little bit devilish. “Alright. We’ll do it your way. You call the shots. When you’re ready to take things to the next step, you just have to let me know. If we’re moving too fast—even if we’re moving slower than an arthritic tortoise—let me know.”

I contemplate his words and everything I do know about Troy, all the things his friends and Delores have told me. I think about his goal with the festival and the people he’s hoping to help. And I let myself smile, the wide curve of my lips generous and genuine.

I hold out my hand to him. “Okay, you have yourself a deal.”

Troy doesn’t shake my hand. He uses it to yank me to him. And he seals the deal with a kiss that leaves my knees quivering, my lips pleading for more.

I don’t think I’ll ever get enough of his kisses.

And that scares me.

* * *

Five days later,I’m sitting at a library computer after work, typing the latest notes I’ve transcribed from Angelique’s journal. Bailey is at home in her crate, taking a break from her training. It’s the same routine we do twice a week so I can catch up on typing the pages I’ve read to eventually give to Anne.

I finish at where I stopped reading last night and log out of my Google account. It’s been a week since I last looked to see if the world has finally moved on when it comes to my release from Beckley. Since I last looked to see if the authorities have captured my late husband’s killer.

A bunch of new articles pop up. I glance behind me, making sure no one is there to see what I’m reading. The coast is clear. I click on the first article.

So far, the murderer is still eluding the police. A picture of my late husband and me smiling for the camera unfortunately graces the article. I remember the photo. It was taken at the beach the year before Amelia was conceived, and during one of those patches when things seemed to be getting better between us—right before they shattered again.

“Hey, Troy,” a male voice says from the other side of my computer screen.

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