I step back, out of his embrace. “No. I think the person you’re really scared of hurting is yourself.”
His pained, crumpled expression says it all.
“I know you’re scared. You’re terrified of losing the people you love. Especially Angie. And I get it. But you can’t just bottle things up until they eat you alive to the point where you’re not living and pursuing what you really want.”
He scoffs. “And you think you know what I want?”
I toss my hands in the air. “No. I don’t. I don’t pretend to know. I don’t know what you’re thinking about at any given moment. I don’t know if you want to kiss me or tell me to fuck off entirely. I don’t know these things because you refuse to tell me. And it’s driving me nuts.”
“I refuse to tell you because—”
“Because you’re the emotionally constipated playboy who can’t overcome his baggage. The guy who screws the heroine over before she meets the real hero.”
My words come out like bullets, and I immediately regret being so trigger-happy.
Based on his menacing stare, I’ve hit a nerve. “My life isn’t some kind of trope. I’m not a stereotype for you to pick apart and mock.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.” I feel like the worst human being in the world. But I’m also thankful I’ve gotten an iota of emotion out of him at all.
“I’m not like you,” he says. His eyes glisten with moisture, and for a split second, I think he might be on the verge of tears, until he sucks it all back. “I can’t just go around getting my heart broken, putting myself back in the cross fire at every opportunity.”
“You think getting my heart broken over and over is easy for me?”
He closes his eyes, like he’s saying a silent prayer. “No. That’s not what I meant.”
“So that’s just it, then? You’re going to avoid your feelings forever and dodge the truth?” My breath hitches as I await the verdict.
He doesn’t respond.
“Fine. You do that. But do me a favor and leave me out of it.” I rip my gaze away, unable to look at him. Desperate for space, I stomp out of the kitchen, down the hall, and into my bedroom, slamming the door behind me.
My hands tremble at my sides as I lean back against the door. This man is single-handedly the most frustrating person I have ever met. I meant what I said to him, though I never should have verbalized it. Another apology is in order, though at this moment in time, I don’t have the energy.
As I contemplate curling into bed to escape reality with a trusty book, there’s a soft knock at the door. “What?” I grumble.
“Tara, please open the door.”
Against my better judgment, I open it the tiniest crack. Trevor is still in his coat and boots, his chest heaving, his hair disheveled like he’s run his fingers through it a thousand times.
“I’m not talking to you until you tell me the truth,” I warn.
He tips his head back, as if to see me from a different perspective. “You want the truth?” he asks, his voice strained.
“That’s all I want,” I whisper, my hands on either side of my cheeks to cover the redness.
He sighs. “You were right. I—have feelings for you.” The declaration knocks the wind out of my chest. I tamp down the urge to ask a million questions, letting him continue. “Big feelings. To the point where I don’t even know what to do with myself half the time. I’ve tried to get you out of my head for months, but your stubborn ass just won’t leave.”
“Really?”
“I’ve wanted to tell you so badly. Every single day since I realized it.”
“Why haven’t you?”
“Because I’m scared that I can’t give you what you need.”
“What do you think I need?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
“You want a full-on fairy tale. The perfect guy from your books. Marriage. Kids. Everything. And you deserve it all. But what if I’m not capable of giving that to you?”
I consider that. I think about all the exes who’ve made me similar promises in the past. How empty their words were. How it all meant nothing. Because in the end, they all left.
“But what if you are?” I counter. “I don’t need another man who makes elaborate promises he can’t commit to, Trevor. I need someone who’s going to be open and honest with me. I want someone who is willing to try.”
A sigh that sounds like relief escapes his lips. “If there’s anyone in this world I want to try for, it’s you,” he whispers.
My chest caves, and my eyes mist. Somehow, those words mean more to me than any elaborate declaration of love from my exes. “We’re really doing this?” I confirm.
“I’m going to give this everything I have. I just . . . I might need to take things slow. Slower than you’re used to.”
I nod. “I can do slow.”
He regards me, his lip tilting in a smirk. “Can you, though?”
“Yup.” I cover my face to hide my half lie, and he laughs.
“You’ve already come up with baby names, haven’t you?”
My heart swells. We’ve been in a relationship all of a minute and already Trevor knows me better than any guy I’ve ever been with. “Maybe. But you’re right. We’ll go slow. Glacial slow. No marriage or baby talk. And just kissing. We’ll keep it G-rated.” I press my hand over my chest in a vow.
He’s quiet for a few beats as his eyes search mine. For a split second, I’m certain he’s about to walk it all back. “Maybe not G.”
“No? Would you prefer PG? Just light pecks and hand-holding?” I tease.
“At least PG-13, smart-ass. Get over here.” Before I have the chance to pounce, he pushes the door open, crosses the threshold, and pulls my wrists from my face. And then his lips collide with mine. Hard.
The intensity is overwhelming in all the best ways. Breath ragged, he cradles my head with both hands, anchoring me so close, a piece of paper couldn’t slip between us. He’s absorbing me with everything he has, and I don’t ask questions.
His tongue skirts my bottom lip and slides against mine effortlessly, like two pieces of the same puzzle. My mind takes a few moments to catch up with my body, taking it all in. The flutter of his lashes against my brow bone. The way his fingers massage the back of my head while the other hand glides down my back, vertebra by vertebra.
I mimic his movement, slipping my hands under his coat and up his back, tracing each of his many muscles one by one as they flex against my touch. When I gently scrape my nails against his skin, he groans into my mouth, his enthusiasm for the situation evident against my stomach. He grinds hard against me, pressing me back into my dresser. The roughness seems to bring him back to the moment, because he pulls away ever so slightly.
I’d bet on my life that he’s going to turn around and walk away. Instead, he moves a strand of hair behind my ear, more gently than I thought possible, breath coming down in pulsing waves against my neck.
“Are you okay?” he whispers.
“More than okay.”
He smooths his thumb over my bottom lip, his eyes searching mine, as if silently asking whether I’m sure. I tighten my grip around him, and he swiftly kisses me again. It’s tender, sweet, and laced with suppressed passion. It lasts for so long, I think I’m going to pass out from euphoria. It’s overwhelming, how good it feels to be held and desired.