Page 113 of Scarred

I feel his heart beating under his t-shirt and bury my face against his chest. Nothing has ever felt more right than when I’m in his arms.

The more I learn about him, the more I fall deeper for this man.

It would be so easy to tell him how I feel, but I’m still afraid he’s not ready. I need him to be the first one to admit his feelings, and I’m okay with waiting.

For now, I’m just going to keep on showing up for him and take these little moments he gives me.

“I'd better get these potatoes in the oven,” I laugh, stepping out of his embrace. “You’ve got to be starving. We haven’t eaten since lunch.”

“I’m starving all right, but it’s not for food,” he grins.

I smile over my wine glass as it touches my lips. “The least I could do after I buried you in the sand is help you wash it all off,” I cheekily say. “How about I get these potatoes on, and you can point in the direction of the shower?”

“Deal,” he says quickly. “What can I do to speed things up?”

“If you want to finish the potatoes, I’ll get the garlic ready,” I giggle, taking a sip of my wine.

My eyes widen as the flavor hits my taste buds.

“Is this from Olivia’s collection?”

“It is,” he says, cutting up the small potato in half. “I asked Savi what your favorite wine was.”

“And you say you’re the lucky one,” I murmur. “I can’t believe you went through all that trouble.”

“No trouble. I stopped by Montgomery’s after practice one day, and Miles hooked me up. No big deal,” he shrugs.

Reaching over, I place a kiss on his cheek. “It’s a big deal to me,” I smile. “Thank you for being so thoughtful.”

He nods slightly and finishes up the last of the potatoes while I get the garlic ready.

“It surprises me,” he says, finally breaking the silence.

“What does,” I ask, transferring the potatoes and garlic to a baking sheet before tossing them with olive oil and seasonings. Sliding them into the oven, I set the timer and turn around.

He’s leaning against the sink, watching me. Confusion marks his features as if he’s still trying to figure me out.

“How much I like it,” he admits.

“Like what?”

“This,” he says, gesturing between us. “Taking care of you…having you here in my kitchen…cooking dinner together.” His jaw tightens as he shakes his head sadly. “It shouldn’t make me this happy…it shouldn’t feel so damn right, but it does.”

Moving closer to him, I place my palm against his cheek, and his eyes close briefly to my touch before his hand covers mine and he kisses the underside of my wrist.

“Maybe it feels so right because it is,” I whisper.

The kitchen falls silent around us, and for a moment neither of us speaks.

His thumb strokes my wrist while he studies me like he’s trying to memorize every detail of me.

“Come here,” he smiles.

“I’m already here.”

“Closer.”

I laugh as he pulls me to him and buries his face in my neck.