Cecelia rushes toward my Camaro and down the porch, dodging a few rogue drops of lingering rain as I push open the door from inside the cabin.
As she settles in, her addictive scent greets me along with her soft “Hey.”
“Hey,” I echo, as she corners me with her usual “missed you” while securing herself into the ancient seatbelt.
“I won’t scare you today,” I lie.
“Liar,” she spurts with a sarcastic laugh as I start rolling out of the driveway.
Glancing in my rearview, Roman’s estate starts to shrink behind us—which is fitting, seeing as how our progress with him is still at a standstill. As I eye the mansion in the rearview, Cecelia follows my gaze, and I tense when she speaks up.
“What’s this?” She asks, curiously eyeing the offering hanging from the rearview. “Oh, my God, Dom . . . is this what I think it is?”
“It’s no big deal,” I interject, “just—”
“—a crown made of honeysuckle vines,” she admonishes as though I’ve just given her the Heart of the Ocean from the Titanic. I inwardly groan as she starts to gush.
“It’s so beautiful,” she murmurs.
“It’s edible weeds,” I counter.
“It’s incredible,” she dons herself in my peripheral. “Dom, you really made this?”
“Well, seeing as they don’t exactly sell them at the Texaco, yeah. Stop acting so surprised. I’m not the anti-Christ,” I snap.
“Since when?” She chuckles, and I turn to see the vines I fastened into a makeshift crown, flower buds out, perched and fitting perfectly atop her head.
“You look ridiculous,” I jest, downshifting for speed before glancing to see her eyes lit with that same damned look.
“You made me a crown. I can’t believe you made me a crown,” her voice wobbles.
I palm the air in front of her. “Don’t make a big deal of it. I was waiting outside Peter’s house this morning and got bored.”
“You were totally thinking about me,” she sighs.
“Jesus,” I mutter, “no good deed goes unpunished. Seriously it’s not a big deal.”
“Well, it is to me,” she whispers, “but you know that. Thank you.”
Knowing she’s itching to touch me, I turn up the radio and downshift, feeling her eyes on me the entire way to the spot. I don’t even have the car parked before I’m attacked, and she makes a very big deal of it.
This. Damned. Girl.
Typing out my command, I feel her ever-present heavy stare on my profile, summoning me from where I sit in my camping chair. Wearing nothing but board shorts, I’ve been soaking in some much-needed sun between the blanketed clouds after days behind my monitor. “You’re never getting another present,” I state, as she continually peruses me. “Facts.”
“Oh, shut up. The novelty has completely worn off.”
“Good to know,” I say, typing out another command.
“That’s a lie,” she admits, gently securing her crown.
“Well then, keep ‘em coming,” I snark as a silent beat passes. Then two.
“What?” I ask, unable to ignore her outright—a feat that’s become next to impossible.
“It’s Sunday, Dom. Take some time off.”
“To do what?”
“To rest,” she sighs. “You work so hard. Between the garage and the day-to-day of,” she eyes my computer, muting any mention of the club, “it’s a lot.”
“Glad you appreciate it,” I smirk over my screen while grabbing an eyeful of her as she lays out on one of the picnic tables at our Meetup spot. Abandoned book beside her, honeysuckle crown on, her sun-bronzed skin glows under the sunrays peeking through the hovering clouds. She’s in a scrap of a crop top which gives me an ample view of her cleavage—especially when she turns on her side, and her sculpted torso and long legs are fucking mouthwatering. It’s definitely a screen saver worth opting for in lieu of the one in my room. She smiles as she catches me ogling her, long hair spilling over the side of the table.
The unguarded affection in her stare unsettles me but also makes it impossible to tear my attention away. No woman has ever held so much ammunition against me with a single look.
Sensing I’m taking her suggested break, she lifts from the picnic table and walks over to me, gently pulling the laptop from my grip before walking it over and securing it back into the Camaro. “Was that necessary?”
“Yes, because I have a confession to make,” she states, stalking toward me, seemingly on a mission. Dread races through me as her lips lift, unphased by whatever reaction she sees. “Don’t look so scared, Dom. It’s not what you’re thinking.”
“I’m not scared.”
“Lie,” she taunts as she bypasses the table and drapes herself across my lap, long legs hooked on the arm of my camping chair. Running her hands over my sweat-slicked skin, she leans in. “Here’s my confession . . . I know what I’m holding,” she murmurs, “I know his worth.”
The same confession I gave her during our first day together. A day when my resentment was fully ripped away, and all I could see was Cecelia for who she really is—the way I see her now, as a young tender with a heart full of affection and a soul spun from gold. As dramatic as that assessment feels—it’s spot fucking on. She’s a living, breathing reminder for me that there is good left in the world.
“You truly do work so hard,” she murmurs, palming my shoulders, “you should play hard, too.”
“I think you’re aware of just how hard I play.” I lift my hips for emphasis, but as usual, she refuses to let me bat the sentiment away. “That was so predictable. You’re not that guy.”
“You shouldn’t think so much of me, Cecelia,” I say on an exhale.
“Tell me why.”
Because every fucking day you’re mine is a day I deceive you.
“I’m a criminal, and I do what criminals do. Lie, cheat, steal, deceive.”
“Maybe . . . but you also provide, gift, and inspire.”
“That’s laughable.”
“You inspire me,” she whispers, pressing soft kisses along my jaw.
How in the fuck does she manage to do this every single time? Evoke the raw in me? More importantly, why do I allow her to corner me into it? A gift of hers I’m not at all fond of. The sincerity in her words and expression demands no less than sincerity in return. She exposes me constantly, to the point that I want to search for a quick escape while simultaneously fueling me with the desire to get closer to her.
It’s fucking witchcraft. And all she’s being is honest.
Even if my own words are continually trying to fight their way out of me, I can’t and won’t utter them.
She presses along my shoulders, massaging them as best she can, and pauses between them to the tightness there. “What is this?”
I shrug.
“What causes this, Dom? What frustrates you so much that your body betrays what you mask so incredibly well?”
“Like you said, I work hard.”
“It’s more than that. What are you carrying?”