Page 52 of Restored By You

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“No.” I set the latte down next to the food and cross the room toward her, stopping just within reach and tell her the truth. “I was a coward this morning. There’s no excuse for it. And I’m not going to stand here and give you one.”

Her jaw works. “You could barely stand to be near me. You wouldn’t even touch me, Rhett.” Her voice cracks and she hates it, I can tell.

“I know.”

“Do you know how that felt?” She’s quiet and wrecked and it’s gut wrenching. “I have spent my whole life watching people’s faces change when they find out who my father is. The second they hear Winton, suddenly I’m not a person anymore, I’m an opportunity, or a threat, or a-a thing to be careful around.” A tear escapes and she swipes it away, furious. “And I actually thought you were the one person who didn’t do that. And then this morning, you did it worse than anyone.”

I close the rest of the distance between us, and when she doesn’t step back, I reach up and thumb the streak of stain off her cheekbone. My hand unsteady.

“It wasn’t you,” I tell her. “I swear to you, it was never your name. I don’t give a damn whose daughter you are.” I drag in a breath. “I panicked because I want you so bad it scares the hell out of me, and this morning the whole world got to see it, and I’ve spent my whole life being the careful one, baby. The reliable one nobody looks twice at. It’s the only thing I’ve ever been good at. And this morning I stood in that room and realized everybody was looking at me thinking I got the job by crawling into bed with the owner’s daughter. I got scared, and I tried to toss you aside for my reputation, my pride.” I shake my head, disgusted with myself. “That’s not you being a Winton. That’s me being a coward.”

For a long moment she just looks at me, her breath uneven, her gaze glossy. “Rhett.” She says my name like it hurts. “I’m leaving in two months. Maybe this is why we shouldn’t? Maybe it’d be easier if we just…

“Don’t.” I cut her off, my hand sliding to cradle the back of her neck. “Don’t talk like that. Ever.”

“I’m just saying it would be simpler—”

“I don’t want simple.” I press my forehead to hers, and my voice drops to something raw I’ve never let anybody hear. “I want you. Two months, two weeks, whatever the hell we get—I’ll take it. I’d rather have you and lose you than play it safe and never have you at all.” I pull back just enough to see her face. “I’m falling for you, sweetheart. I know I shouldn’t say it. I know it complicates every damn thing, but I’m not gonna stand here and be a coward twice in one day. So there it is, and I’m not sorry about it. The only thing I’m sorry about is this morning.”

Her breath catches. Her eyes go wide and wet and searching, and I watch her open her mouth—watch the words rise up and stall out, watch the fear win, watch her decide she can’t admit she’s feeling it, too.

And I don’t need her to.

“You don’t have to—” I start.

She kisses me.

Hard and sudden, both hands fisting in the front of my flannel, pulling me down into her like she was holding it back the whole time I was talking. It knocks the breath clean out of me. I catch her, one arm banding around her waist, the other still cradling her jaw. She moans softly against my mouth and I feel it everywhere.

That’s her answer. And god help me, I’ll fuckin’ take it.

The kiss turns molten fast, a whole day of hurt pouring into it at once. She’s pulling me down, I’m walking her back, and her spine hits the one stretch of wall we haven’t touched yet.

“Rhett.” She gasps against my mouth. “I need you. I thought about you all day, and I hated it. I hated feeling like I couldn’t have you.”

“I know, baby. I know.” I get a hand under her thigh and hitch it around my hip, pressing into her, letting her feel exactly what a day of guilt has done to me. “I’m right here. You have me.”

She whimpers and drags my mouth back to hers, and there’s nothing careful about it—not from her, not from me. Her hands are under my shirt, nails scraping up my sides. I fumble the tie on her sweatpants while she works my belt, both of us frantic, greedy.

It’s not pretty. It’s not slow. It’s need, plain and desperate, two people reaching for the thing that got knocked loose this morning and refusing to let go.

“Here?” she breathes, glancing at the drop cloths and the general mess of a house mid-restoration.

“Yes, here.” I get her sweats down her thighs. “My girl just told me she needs me, and I’m not going to deny her. Ever.”

“Yes.”

I lift her clean off the floor and she wraps her legs around me, and I take her against the only dry wall in her half-finished house, quick and rough and desperate, swallowing every sound she makes. It’s fast for the both of us. We’re too keyed up, too raw, too much emotion. When she comes apart, her hot pussy pulsing around me with my name on her lips, I follow her right over, my face buried in her neck. I hold her steady, my cock buried deep, her legs trembling on my hips—but I’m not ready to let her go.

She pulls back to look at me, flushed and wrecked and smiling, finally, the hurt from this morning gone soft at the edges. She reaches up and pushes a strand of hair off my forehead. “The pizza is getting cold,” she says.

“Don’t care.”

“My latte ice is melting.”

“Hmm, should I care?” I ask, and she nods. I kiss her, slow this time, another apology. “All right, darlin’.”