“Nothing,” I say, even though that’s not the truth.
Kelsey, being the intuitive sister that she is, turns me to face her and grips my shoulders. “Talk to me, now.”
Sighing, I lie back on my bed and stare up at the ceiling. “I love him, Kels.”
“What?” she asks, her voice coming out high-pitched. “What did you say?”
I lift up to look her in the eyes. “I love him.”
Her jaw drops as she blinks a few times. “You love him. As in, you love Huxley Cane, your fake fiancé?”
“Yes, exactly. I love him.”
“What? When? How? I mean, I know you’re dating and things have progressed, but love?”
I nod, totally sure of it. “Yeah, I love him. It feels as though it came out of nowhere, but there’s no doubt in my mind. You were right—there’s a thin line between love and hate. I crossed that line.”
“Wow, just . . .” She pauses, and when my eyes connect with hers, she smiles and then reaches out and pulls me into a hug. “I’m happy for you, Lottie.”
“Thank you.” I return her embrace.
“Are you planning on telling him? Is that why you’re getting all dressed up?”
“Yeah.” I bite down on my lip, nerves shooting up my arms. “Do you think that’s too forward?”
“No.” Kelsey shakes her head. “Because I think he has the same feelings for you.”
I perk up. “You think so?”
“I’ve seen him before you two were together and since, and I’m telling you right now, I’ve never seen a man so into a woman as Huxley is into you. He worships you, Lottie.”
“I think worship is a strong word.” But I still smirk, thinking about how he was reluctant to leave me this morning after I played with him in the shower. I can still hear his deep groans as he came on my chest while I ran my vibrator along his balls.
It was one of the hottest things I’ve ever seen, his godlike body contracting, straining. Every muscle vibrating as he lost control of all his senses. I’ve been replaying the visual in my head all day, to the point that I sent him a dirty text letting him know exactly what I wanted to do to him when he got home. He hasn’t replied yet, but then again, he’s a very busy man.
“When is he supposed to get home?”
I glance at the clock on my nightstand. “Any time now.”
“Really?” Kelsey jumps off the bed. “Then I should get going. I don’t want to be the one who interrupts a special homecoming.” She snags her purse and then snatches me into a hug. “I’m happy for you. Huxley is a good guy; I’ve said it from the beginning. You both are lucky to have stumbled upon each other.” She chuckles. “Still can’t believe you went looking for a rich husband and actually found one.” With that, she gives me one last hug and then takes off.
I take another look at myself in the mirror. There’s no doubt this is the dress I should be wearing. Huxley is going to love it. The only question is—do I pair it with shoes or do I go barefoot?
Knowing Huxley, he’d want heels.
I walk into the expansive closet and try on a few pairs before settling on a pair of strappy black heels I know he’ll love. I walk over to my dresser where I keep my perfume and spritz myself a few times. I hear the front door open and close.
He’s home.
Butterflies erupt in my stomach, knowing this is a huge step for me. I’ve never told a guy I loved him before, let alone be the first to acknowledge feelings. But there’s something about the way Huxley talks to me with such honesty. He instills confidence . . . comfort, a safe place to be able to express myself. And I don’t think there’s a chance in hell I’ll be able to go another day without telling him how I feel. Lord knows I told the man I hated him several times.
It’s about time I told him I love him.
I head down the stairs, being careful not to slip in these heels, and work my way to the entryway, where I catch Huxley staring down at his phone.
“Hey, you,” I say, walking up to him. I place my hand on his chest and curl against him as I press a kiss to his jaw.
Instead of wrapping his arm around my waist like he normally would, or forcing me to kiss him on the lips, he stands there stiff, almost unwelcoming.
Nervous, I pull away and ask, “Is everything okay?”
Slowly, he lifts his head until his eyes connect with mine, and that’s when I see it: the disconnect in his gaze. The same disconnect I saw early on, when he barely talked to me, when he wanted nothing to do with me.