I pause.
Because isn’t that the whole point of his blog and his millions of adoring fans?
In the last month, he’s shown me his posts, and we’ve chatted about captions and lighting and cropping, but I don’t scroll through the comments. I’ve been too busy to give it much thought. I handled the contract negotiations for him, pleased I kicked corporate ass, and was delighted to hear the company loved his clone.
But now, now that we’re more firmly together and things are going so well, I have to wonder where this is headed. How much his blog means to him, and how long he plans to do it.
Which is the most hypocritical thing I could ever think. Because here I am, benefitting from his work, from his creativity and body and personal exposure, and as much as I want to brush off those women in the bakery, their comments trouble me.
While I don’t want to tell him what to do with his blog, I’m starting to think maybe I’m not as open-minded as I once hoped.
But I stuff down the emotion when Josh twines his fingers through mine and bends down to taste my neck. Today has been incredible, and I don’t want to bring up anything that would tarnish the wonderful time we’ve had. At some point, though, we’ll need to talk about it. I’m just hoping this isn’t a bigger issue for us than a simple conversation where I can unload some irrational worries.
Turning back to the two women in the bakery, I find that they’re watching Josh kiss my neck with horrified expressions on their faces. Oh, yeah, bitches, he’s with me.
I smile at them and wave. Because, for now, Josh is mine. If that means I need to have thicker skin, so be it.
21
Josh
We’re driving back to Portland with fresh air in our lungs and a dog in the back seat of my car, cherry pie boxed up where he can’t get it. I glance over at Evie, and she looks thoughtful. Her dark hair is pulled back in a simple ponytail, and I lean over and kiss the freckles on her cheek. This earns me a broad smile.
I shift my eyes back on the road. I don’t know why I haven’t told her how I feel about her.
Maybe because we aren’t supposed to be together, although the whole lawyer-client issue hasn’t stopped us. In fact, I think it’s made her more invested in my future. While she’s not afraid to push back and tell me the hard things I don’t want to hear when she needs to, her advice about my blog has been spot-on. So our relationship is not getting in the way of her work at all.
Maybe I haven’t told her because she’s so strong and focused on her career. I don’t want to take her attention away from that. Once I say something it becomes real. That’s what I like about her, though. That she is so real.
But maybe I haven’t said anything because after my last relationship, I’m still gun-shy.
I look at her and make a decision.
Screw my history. This relationship happened so naturally, it’s like I’ve been waiting for her forever.
I’m forced to keep it quiet. For her sake and mine—or for that of the Cartwright name and Spencer’s campaign.
Still, the fact remains that she is mine.
I’m pretty damn sure she feels the same way.
But I’m going to tell her.
I just need to find the right time.
When we pull up to Evie’s house, Chauncey bursts out of the back seat, runs three circles around the front lawn, bashes through a rhododendron, and then sits on the porch like he’s been sanely and sedately led to the front door. Muttering, “Crazy mutt,” under her breath, Evie strolls over to the side gate and lets him in the backyard.
We enter her house, and Evie sets the pie on the kitchen counter.
“We’re going to tackle this project next?” I ask, gesturing toward the avocado and golden harvest appliances that don’t match the 1927 bungalow.
She smiles. “Yeah, will you go with me on a historical house tour? There’s one down in Albany I’d like to check out. Some of those houses still have their original charm. I’m sure it’ll give me tons of ideas for this place.”
“Absolutely.” There is nothing I’d like better. We had a blast tiling the master bathroom. I really think she should start blogging, so I’ve brought the camera inside to take before pictures as persuasion.
But not yet.
I set the Canon on the counter beside the box with the pie. I’m not interested in food, photos, or home improvement. I just want Evie. She looks too beautiful, and the teasing in the cherry orchard was torture. I take off my glasses, rest them on the pastry box, and step towards her, tilting up her chin with my index finger. She gets a light kiss, and I pull back and cup her face with my hands.
“Hey,” I say, noticing for the first time that her sleepy gray eyes are rimmed with a darker color on the outside. An ombre effect. Funny I can see it better without my glasses.
“Hey,” she responds, her voice suddenly husky.
I need to show her. I need to tell her what I’m thinking. What I’m feeling.
With a brush of my thumb, I feel the silk of her cheeks, and I take a deep breath. She smells like sunshine—bright and sweet and warm. Leaning in, I kiss her again, only this is an I mean it kiss.
A claiming kiss.
One she can’t mistake for anything else.
One that means I’m not going anywhere without her.
My tongue swipes inside her mouth, finding hers, and just like that, we combust. Frantic. Hungry. Crazed. Like we’re trying to climb inside the other person, that’s how close we want to be. We’re nothing but hands, breaths, lips, and dare I say it, love?
Love.
That’s how I’m feeling.
I love her.
After a moment, I suck on her lower lip, my teeth nipping at it as I break apart.
The best way I know how to convey my feelings is to show her body. Give her what she needs. Let her feel completely cared for.
Completely owned.
Because of course, she owns me.
Even if we haven’t been together long, I know she’s different. This girl touches me in a way no one else ever has.
Her eyes are wide and wild. I love that turned-on expression she gets. And that sated, sleepy look that sweeps over her after she comes.
I’m going to make sure that happens now. Multiple times.
I pull her thin, mint green sweater over her head and admire her standing there in a pale pink bra, dark jeans, and brown leather boots.
She’s come a long way. She used to hide her body from me. I couldn’t bless her perfect tits, the inward curve of her waist at her hips, the velvety skin on her ribcage with my kisses.
Now she stands there with a half smile, knowing that I’m enjoying every inch of her half-naked body.
“Wanna taste you.” The words are raspy and raw, maybe because I’ve wanted to say this since we kissed in the orchard.
Her eyes darken to the color of slate, and she nods.