“I know, but I never imagined I’d walk in and find you in bed with…that.” She gulps. “I’m so jealous of you right now.”
I follow her gaze to the blond, blue-eyed tower of hard muscle in my driveway. He stares down at a greasy part he pulled off my car, leaning his weight to one hip and working those jeans like they were designed for a Viking.
The t-shirt is white, fitted across his shoulders, and showcasing the ridges of definition beneath. He’s the epitome of well-honed beauty, the kind that dilutes my brain cells and fucks my common sense into quivering mush.
Even Angel is captivated by him. She hasn’t left his side since we stepped outside. When she tips her scowl up at him, he scowls down at her, and they connect on some devious, calculating level I don’t understand.
She was only a year old when Cole left, so Trace is the first man I’ve introduced to her. Watching them interact is surprisingly enjoyable. In fact, seeing him with my family spreads a comfortable warmth through my chest.
If I’m not careful, I’m going to fall into a swirling, consuming abyss with this man. A frightening thought, because I don’t trust him. I can’t.
“Don’t get too excited, Bree.” I keep my voice too low for his ears. “We have a lot to work through.”
“What do you mean?”
As the guys change the brakes out of hearing range, I recap everything that happened after she left yesterday morning—the lap dance, the argument that followed, the drama with Marlo then Jason, the angry sex, and his plan to spend the week with me.
“You packed up the basement?” She touches her throat, eyes watering.
“Yeah.”
“You emptied the cup!”
Oh my God. “You’re so damn cheesy.”
“Cheddar is cheesy. I’m sentimental.” She tackles me in a hug. “I’m so very proud of you.” Leaning back, she holds tight to my hands. “You have to forgive him.”
“What?” My neck stiffens, and I pull away. “No, I’m not—”
“He’s helping you. Can’t you see that?”
I see a gorgeous asshole with a fine ass clad in denim, his muscles bunching and flexing as he bends under the car.
“I don’t mean with the car. He’s helping you move on.” She lowers her voice. “Besides, with a Johnson like his—”
“Please don’t call it a Johnson.”
“—I’d forgive anything that man did.”
“You would not.” I stretch my toes, tracing the design on the brick pavers. “Seeing him with Marlo really hurt me.”
“Because you hurt him.”
“I didn’t do it deliberately. That’s the difference. He’s vicious.”
“He’s in love, and you know firsthand that love makes people desperate and crazy.” Her attention drifts to the man in question, and she licks her lips.
“You just want me to keep him around so you can ogle him.”
“Totally.”
“Not helpful.” I droop against the back of the loveseat. “I’m trying to be smart about this.”
She mirrors my posture, casting me a side-long smile. “You love him.”
“So?” I lift a shoulder.
“You always said there’s no real choice in love.”
“I never thought I’d fall in love twice,” I whisper.
“Everyone deserves a second chance.”
Her double-meaning settles through me.
He deserves a second chance, and so do I.
Trace makes me wait three weeks for sex. I know tonight’s the night, because he said, “We’re going out. Wear a skirt. No panties.”
As I stand in my guest bedroom and dig through racks of dresses, the question isn’t What will I wear? What rattles in my head is Do I trust him? Have I forgiven him? Will I tell him I love him?
We share the same bed every night, hopping between my place and his. He wines and dines me, takes me to fancy parties with his fancy friends, slums with me at dive bars and restaurants, and accompanies me on visits with Bree and when I line dance at Gateway Shelter.
I’ve spent the past three weeks analyzing his every word, every action, attempting to glean his intentions. We had the I’m clean, he’s clean, we don’t need condoms talk. And there hasn’t been any suspicious interactions with other women. When I spy on him at the casino bars, he intercepts the bold feminine hands on his body. He doesn’t so much as look at them.
Only one photo of Cole sits on my dresser—the one of him straddling his bike and smiling those adorable dimples at the camera. Gradually, mournfully, I boxed away the rest in the basement. The matter of the bike remains. Sell it? Keep it? Trace never mentions it, never pushes me to clear out the boxes downstairs.
I know he’s not trying to trick me or impress me. He hasn’t made any guilt-wrencher moves to imply a declaration of my love or forgiveness is necessary. I genuinely believe he simply enjoys being with me, talking to me, and watching me dance. No strings attached. Not even sex.
That’s not to say he doesn’t want sex. The man is hard more than he’s not. He’s in the shower right now, and I bet the stubborn shit is rubbing one out.
For me, abstinence was so much easier when I wasn’t immersed in chiseled, scowly temptation day and night.
He works when I’m sleeping and dancing at the casino. Outside of that, we’re never apart. This inseparable, celibate routine we’ve fallen into feels like a slow strangling death. He touches me chastely and kisses me sweetly, despite the sexual tension coiling around us and gasping for relief.
It’s spectacularly effective.
He’s worn me down with his patience and consistency. But in the end, it’s his dedication that’s my undoing. He’s no longer an if but a when.
I still cling to doubts, but I trust Trace not to intentionally hurt me. I think he’ll always be manipulative. It’s in his nature. But will he manipulate me? Cheat on me? Fuck me and leave me?
He’s moved past that.
I hope to God I’m right.
Selecting a turquoise dress with a flirty knee-length skirt, I slide it on with a pair of kitten heels. It’s my night off work, and I’ve spent the last hour doing my hair and makeup.
I step into the dance studio and cue up a song that expresses everything I haven’t had the courage to say to Trace. As I check my reflection in the mirror, Say You Won't Let Go by James Arthur streams through the speakers.
Mouthing the words, I gently sway my hips, lift my arms above my head, and close my eyes. By the time the chorus hits, I’m singing aloud and traveling through improvised steps. The music, the lyrics, the emotions I feel for Trace resonate inside me and accelerate my breaths.
When I open my eyes, I catch his reflection in the mirror and slow my movements to a graceful stop.
He leans against the doorframe behind me, chin down, one hand in the pocket of his khaki pants, the other holding a blue necktie. He’s a heart-stopping sight, scowl and all.
“I’m ready. I’ll just…” I move toward the stereo.
“Don’t.”
I freeze, pinned by the force of his gaze, and that’s where I stay as the last half of the song plays.
The lyrics are a slow-burning confession of love, the push and pull of commitment, a plea to never let go. It’s the ballad of us, and I know he agrees when his head lifts, eyes seeking mine.