Page 65

I can’t answer. His hand is warm around mine, and the simple certainty of the words lands harder than anything he said downstairs. I tighten my fingers around his.

“Yes, you did.”

Kell doesn’t say anything else. He just keeps holding my hand.

Sex was easier. Not physically. Four years without sex and a man Kell’s size are probably going to make themselves known tomorrow. But everything else about sex made sense. I wanted him. He wanted me. We talked about what mattered, figured out what worked, and then did something spectacular with the information.

I can put that somewhere: attraction, chemistry, sex. Perfectly respectable categories.

This doesn’t fit as neatly. Kell’s hand remains around mine while the room goes quiet. My breathing has returned to normal. The last faint trace of resonance in him has disappeared. Downstairs, the peach bowls are still in the sink and his painting is drying in the dining room.

Tomorrow morning he’ll still be here. The thought lands harder than it should.

No. Absolutely not. I’m not turning one excellent night in bed into a referendum on the structure of my life.

“You are thinking again,” Kell says.

I turn my head toward him.

“You’re getting very good at noticing that.”

“You get quiet.”

“People are allowed to be quiet.”

“You are different quiet.” I consider denying that, but he’s known me only a few days and is already irritatingly good at recognizing when I’m avoiding something.

“I’m tired.”

“That too.”

“See? Problem solved.”

Kell’s expression says he doesn’t believe the problem is remotely solved. Fortunately, he’s also learned that not every thought in my head requires investigation. He leaves it alone, which may be worse.

I shift onto my side, facing him. His hand comes with mine because neither of us lets go.

Up close, the finer weave of his face catches the bedside light differently from the heavier willow across his shoulders. I can make out the individual crossings around his cheek and jaw, the subtle movement where his lips meet, the living structure that somehow manages to look unmistakably like Kell rather than a sculpture somebody built.

Four days. The number is ridiculous.

Four days ago, none of this existed. No paint on my dining room floor. No black leather jacket hanging downstairs. No cabinet doors left open because closing them still seems to be an optional final step. No man criticizing my coffee while consuming alarming quantities of flavored creamer.

No Kell. And tonight he chose me.

Tonight can be enough. Beside me, Kell shifts closer on the pillow.

“Laura?”

“Hmm?”

“Again tomorrow?”

I turn toward him and find him completely serious. My laugh comes out before I can stop it.

His brow furrows. “What?”

“Nothing.”