The Rom Con(101)

No argument there. “Well, sometimes the truth hurts. And despite your god-awful delivery, I suppose some tough love wasn’t the worst thing for me,” I acknowledge grudgingly. “I can’t argue with the results, at any rate.”

“You’re being far too understanding.” He shakes his head, refusing my compassion. “There’s no excuse for the way I spoke to you. I want you to depend on me, not wonder if I’ll disappear whenever the going gets rough. The way I behaved . . . it’s not who I am. I hope you’ll give me another chance to prove that.”

My heart squeezes at the vulnerability in his voice, and any lingering vindictiveness I may have been hanging on to evaporates in a puff of smoke. “How about next time, we commit to actually talking things through instead of letting six weeks go by? Just an idea.”

The corner of his mouth lifts, the phrase next time glowing in the air between us like a lightning bug. He reaches a hand out between our chairs—an apology, an olive branch, and a promise all wrapped in one—and lets it hang there, patiently waiting, until I clasp it and hold on for dear life. I may never let go.

I stare at him, letting my eyes travel a leisurely field trip across his face, taking a slow and steady inventory of all the little details I’ve missed so much: the dimple bracketing the corner of his mouth; his hair, ruffled and windswept, my favorite wayward front tendril misbehaving even more than usual; the stubbled jaw I’m desperate to graze my knuckles over; the gleaming blue of his eyes, clear as sea glass.

I love him. And no matter what potholes and speed bumps we’ve encountered on our path to get here, I know I always will. What was it Gran said? All love is a leap of faith.

Well, I’ve looked, and I’m leaping.

He gives my hand a little tug and I take the hint, sliding off my lounger and hopscotching over to his. His arms automatically open for me and I climb on, curling up against his side and resting my head against the solid cushion of his chest. This chair definitely isn’t built for two—the wrought iron arm is digging into my spinal cord—but right now, it may as well be a bed of roses.

“I know who you are, Jack.” I give in to the temptation and trace a fingertip along his jaw, the familiar prickle of his stubble lighting a fire in my belly. “And I’ve already forgiven you. That is, if you can forgive me.”

The words have barely escaped my lips when he presses his mouth to mine, kissing me so passionately that any mature, articulate thoughts I may have had about absolution instantly fly out of my head, leaving only raw desire in their place. This kiss is not patient or gentle; it’s crushing, bruising, intense. It’s weeks of pent-up emotion and angst, yearning and hunger. It’s a pot boiling over, a raging wildfire consuming everything in its path.

I can’t believe I’ve gone so long without this. It’s been six weeks since he touched me, six weeks since he learned my body so thoroughly, and he makes it clear he hasn’t forgotten an inch. His hands roam and rediscover and I let him take his fill, then steal mine in return. We kiss and taste and worship to our heart’s content and I don’t know how much time has passed before I come to, but when I do I’m straddling him like a horny cowgirl.

“Jack,” I say breathlessly. I’m panting like a hiker at high elevation. “I hate to do this—and I mean I really hate to do this—but we have to stop.”

“But do we really?” he murmurs, his lips placing swirling kisses beneath my ear, his hand slipped beneath my sweater and splayed against the bare skin of my rib cage.

“We do, because I can pretty much guarantee my grandmother has found a way to spy on us.”

That stops him cold.

I drop my head into his neck and laugh as I roll off him. “If I’d known all I needed to say was ‘I forgive you,’ I would’ve done it sooner,” I tease, fanning myself.

“You know who hasn’t forgiven me? Cliff. He’s barely said two words to me since you stopped coming around. He won’t even look me in the eye. Do you have any idea what it’s like to be hated by your doorman?”

“I admire his loyalty,” I say solemnly, then remember something. “Wait, so how did you find me?”

“Ah.” He resettles us in the chaise, his arm nestling me against his side. “So I’d hit a dead end in my search, but worse, I’d started to think you really didn’t want to be found. I worried I was being selfish, that if I did find you I might just end up screwing your life up all over again. So I paused to figure out my next move . . . and then the Olivia Sherwood interview came out.” He clasps my hand to his chest and squeezes. “I couldn’t help but think you were sending me a message? I nearly murdered Tom for not telling me about it.”

“Tom understood the assignment.”

He makes a frustrated noise. “I can’t decide if I’m annoyed that you two colluded behind my back or happy that you’re finally getting along.” He lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Anyway, at that point I was out of options, so I had to play my ace.” He pauses for dramatic effect. “I called Greg.”

“Of course Greg spilled the beans. I swear, that guy needs a muzzle.” I make a mental note to rename the villain in my book after Greg. “Though in this case, I suppose I owe him one.”

“Well, actually, it was your sister who answered the phone, and boy, did she rip me a new one,” Jack says, chuckling at the memory. “She chewed me out for a solid ten minutes about what a horrible human being I am and how I don’t deserve you.”