Page 161 of That Rush

“No. They’re stubborn assholes.”

Her thumb moves over my knuckles. “I’m not asking you to stop loving Krista.”

“Good, because part of me always will. She’s Josie’s mother. She was a good one, and she trusted me enough to help build the relationship I have with Josie now.”

“Then what am I?”

“The woman I want.”

She looks up at me.

“I don’t want someone to braid Josie’s hair, manage this house, or make us look whole. Josie and I are already a family. I want you because you challenge me, make me laugh, and walk into a room like you already own it.” I turn my hand beneath hers and lace our fingers. “I want a partner, Paige. Specifically you.”

She closes the space between us, her knee pressing against mine. “I needed to hear that.”

“You can ask me again if you ever doubt it.”

“I’d rather you keep showing me.”

“That I can do.”

We sit together until the porch light begins attracting every moth in Colorado. When Paige finally stands, I rise with her.

“I can drive you home,” I say. “Or you can stay.”

Her gaze moves toward the house, then returns to me. “I’m staying.”

I take her hand and lead her inside.

In my bedroom, I give her a T-shirt and brush my teeth while she changes. When we climb beneath the covers, she comes to me without hesitation, fitting her back against my chest and pulling my arm around her waist.

I kiss her shoulder and hold her while the house goes quiet around us.

She chose tonight. I hold her close and refuse to imagine every night after it.

Chapter 22

Paige

On Wednesday afternoon, my phone vibrates inside the children’s desk drawer while I am helping a seven-year-old locate a book about sharks.

“Scary sharks or educational sharks?” I ask.

He considers the distinction. “Both.”

“Excellent answer.”

I lead him toward the animal shelves, find a book with enough teeth on the cover to satisfy him, and return to the desk after he races back to his mother.

My phone vibrates again.

A photograph from Aiden fills the screen. The worn paperback I loaned him on Monday is open across his denim-covered thigh, one dusty hand holding down the pages I marked. The picture cuts him off at the waist, but I recognize the faded jeans, the scrape across his knuckle, and the casual strength in the hand holding that book.

Aiden: Your hotel owner quit too soon.

I glance toward the children’s section. Three parents are reading, one toddler is attempting to fit an entire board book beneath her shirt, and my coworker is handling the checkout line.

I take my phone into the workroom.