She shrugs. “Takes time. Which means you should take the time to loosen up as well.” She grips my shoulder and shakes it. “Enough of this depressing talk. Tell me something exciting.”
“Something exciting? I’m not sure if I have anything exciting to tell you.”
“Okay, then just tell me something, anything. Something that makes you smile.”
The first thing that comes to mind is her. She makes me smile. Seeing her cooking in the kitchen, swaying back and forth, looking completely comfortable in her surroundings. That makes me happy.
Seeing her wearing my sweatshirt, that also makes me happy.
Sitting here in front of a fire, the fire blazing while rain pelts the house outside, Larkin by my side—that makes me happy.
“I can see you’re thinking of something,” she says, gesturing to my eyes with her fork. “What is it?”
I look down, avoiding all eye contact. Hell, what would she say if I actually told her the truth? Probably run for the hills. And that’s exactly why I’m not going to tell her. If I’ve realized anything over the time we’ve been here on Marina Island, it’s that I need her. I need her professionally—she’s like the glue that holds me together—but I also need her mentally and emotionally. She makes me tick, she helps propel me forward, she helps me relax.
Yeah . . . she’s . . . she’s everything I need.
“Uh . . . I like this blanket.” I rub my hand over the blanket, knowing precisely how lame and unbelievable that statement is, but it’s better than the truth.
And it doesn’t slip by Larkin because she pokes me and frowns. “That is so not what you were thinking.”
“Yes, it was.”
She sets her fork in the nearly empty pot and then places it in front of us, out of the way. “So, you’re telling me that this blanket, this run-of-the-mill flannel blanket purchased from Target, is what makes you smile?”
“Yeah,” I say, sticking to my story. “It’s soft.”
“Ford.”
“Hmm?” I look up at her, those fucking eyes boring into me.
“You’re lying.”
I set my fork down. “How can you accuse me of such a thing? How do you know this blanket doesn’t mean a lot to me? That there isn’t a story behind this wonderfully woven blanket?”
“Is there?” she asks, eyebrows raised.
“There is.”
Facing me, she crosses her legs, her knee butting up against my thigh. “Okay, then please, delight me in the significance of this blanket.”
“I will.” I stretch my legs out and lean back on both hands. “It was a snowy, wintery day—”
“I bought this blanket for your parents when they were visiting you in Denver last winter. Your dad told me it kept his crotch warm. Your mom told me she likes how it felt against her unshaven legs.”
I stare blankly at her.
Why the hell do my parents think it’s okay to be that creepily open with my assistant?
Larkin smirks.
Larkin puffs her chest.
Larkin looks so goddamn breathtaking that the mere act of pulling her close feels inevitable, and it’s terrifying. I’m not sure I’ve ever looked at her like that. I’ve never had the urge to pull her into my chest, to hold her hand, to find out what her lips taste like. Yes, I’ve always thought Larkin is beautiful, there’s no denying that, but I’ve never let myself consider the romantic possibilities—until now.
Until we’re sitting in the dark, the fire providing the only light, her kind yet brutally honest and welcoming heart on full display. It’s as if a light bulb has been switched on in my head, and I now see her in a completely different light.
I see her as someone I could easily get lost in.
“Have anything to say about the blanket on your mom’s unshaven legs?” she asks with a giggle.
I swallow, wet my lips. “Well, I knew about the warming of my father’s crotch, and that frankly puts a smile on my face, because a father’s warm crotch is a . . . uh . . . happy son?”
Larkin lets out a wail of a laugh. “Oh my God, I’m never going to be able to look at you the same.”
I laugh as well, hating that I’m not as quick on my feet as Cooper. If he were in my place, he’d have no doubt made up a long-ass story about the warm blanket for crotches and unshaven legs, and he would make it believable.
“Don’t worry, when I look at myself in the mirror tomorrow, I’ll be ashamed.”
“As you should be.” She wipes under her eyes and then nudges me with her foot. “Now you have to tell me the truth—no lying. What were you thinking about when I asked you what puts a smile on your face?”