Page 122 of Tangled with the Tight End

I smile at that.

He tugs me in and I savor the feel of his arm wrapping around me.

My eyes are starting to drift shut when a clunking noise echoes through the house followed by whirring sounds and the lights flickering on. Our warm, yellow ambiance is bathed in full light without notice.

“That means the elevator works again,” I tell him. “For a moment, I thought we were going to be stuck in the one-bed trope.”

“One-bed trope?”

I explain the way couples in romance stories end up in situations where there’s only one bed.

“Just my luck,” he says. “The lights had to come on.”

Then he winks at me, and this time, it’s not weird like that wink he gave me during the game. I feel this wink travel through me—laced with intention and promise.

“I’ll stay,” I say. “As long as you don’t mind.”

“I like it when you’re here,” he says, pushing himself to standing using both arms and one leg.

He maneuvers over to his crutches and then he looks up at me with an expression that’s so vulnerable and candid. “The house gets too quiet sometimes. I like when you’re here.”

My throat constricts and I swallow. I always wondered whether he gets lonely.

Declan moves through the room, heading for the elevator. He returns as promised with a jersey, some yoga pants, a toothbrush and toothpaste.

I retreat into the guest bedroom, staring at the bed where I dozed off earlier. The imprint of my body is still rumpled into the bedding.

That was only hours ago. But it feels like a lifetime.

Declan kissed me.

I’m not the same woman who rested in that bed. Now I’m the woman Declan kissed by firelight. The one he’s been longing to kiss for weeks.

I brush my teeth and pull on the jersey, tug on the yoga pants, and then I return to the main room to say goodnight.

Declan’s on the sofa with his leg out.

“Did you overdo it?” I ask him.

“Nah. I’ll take an Advil and get some rest. It’s fine.”

His eyes rove over me in his jersey, a possessive look in his gaze. “Turn around, Winona. I want to see my name on your back.”

“Please,” I say, taunting him on purpose.

“Turn around, please,” he says. And then he adds an exaggerated caveman-like grunt for my benefit.

I crack up. But inwardly, I’m giddy. Declan wants to see his name on my back.

I pop my hands on my hips as if I’m not going to comply with his request.

He raises his brows.

I smile, taking my hair, gathering it, tossing it over one shoulder and running my hands over it to secure it there. Then I slowly turn, raising my arms in the air and swaying my hips once my back is toward him. “O’Connell. You happy?”

“Happy doesn’t begin to describe it,” he says.

I turn around and my flirtiness dies when my eyes meet his intense gaze.