A week after that, Sonya and Quinn have a long-overdue afternoon housewarming barbecue, and I go. I don’t know if Rhys’ll be there, but I hope he will.
It’s a great party. The house is packed to the gills—Hotts and their friends, Wilders and their friends. Nan the baker is there, but Arthur Weggers isn’t, even though Sonya invited him. Food and drink cover every surface in the house, and children run amok in the best possible way. It’s noisy and fun, and I have to go out on the back deck to catch my breath because it’s so much.
“Hey,” a deep voice says.
I know exactly who it is, not only because I’d know that voice anywhere but because the feel of my pulse picking up and my skin tightening all over is just as familiar.
“Hey,” I say.
He comes up behind me. Close. Crowding me to the rail.
“You can tell me to leave,” he murmurs.
“Please don’t leave,” I say.
Rhys sets a line of kisses down the side of my neck, and I shiver and back myself up against him. He’s hard. Aroused. I wiggle against him. He turns me in his arms. Sets his mouth to mine. It’s not a first-date kiss. It’s hungry and needy. My whole body lights up; I’m completely here for it.
The door opens behind us, and we jump apart. “Cake time!” Hanna cries, and we follow her inside for dessert.
What I want is forusto leave, to leave this party and maybe the whole world behind, to go where it’s quiet and just us.
It hasn’t been long, but I’m starting to see what Mari meant. Thatforeveris actually a string oftodays. That no one can promise forever, but onetodayafter another is a start.
That trusting when you have no reason to isn’t stupid—it’s brave.
It might hurt again someday, but it might be worth it in the meantime.
53
Rhys
Acts of faith are funny. They’re the opposite of that popular sayingThe definition of insanity is doing the same thing repeatedly and expecting different results.
Faith is about doing the same thing over and over again and expecting, finally, different results.
I don’t expect anything after Sonya and Quinn’s party. I haven’t let myself expect anything this whole time. Because I meant what I said to her. I don’t want her to be something I feel entitled to. I don’t want her to come to me because she owes it to me or because I’ve somehow tricked her into it.
I only want her if I deserve her, and I only deserve her if she believes I’ll never hurt her. And I can’t tell her that. I can only show her.
I help Sonya and Quinn clean up, and then I retire to the guesthouse. I need a place of my own, and I’ll get one soon, but I’m trying to get things straightened out with my old and new jobs first, and then I’ll deal with housing questions. So for now, it’s the guesthouse.
I’ve showered and pulled on a pair of sweats and a T-shirt when there’s a knock. I’m so sure it’s Sonya or Quinn that I don’t even hesitate; I just open the door.
But it’s Eden.
She’s standing there, still wearing the clothes she had on at the party—a pair of tight black velvet leggings that turn her slim body into a paradise of curves. It was the cling of those leggings to the swerve of her hips and ass that made me lose control enough to press myself to her backside on the deck, even though I’d told myself I wouldn’t touch her unless she asked me to.
I was too weak for that, and I have zero regrets; I can still feel the firm curve of her ass against the steel of my cock.
She’s wearing a loose wine-colored top with a scoop neck that draws my eyes straight to her tits, which I’ve been trying not to stare at all night. I don’t stare now, either, but only because I can’t take my eyes off the other thing she’s wearing.
The cowboy hat, tilted at a jaunty angle.
From under the hat, she’s smiling at me. In her hands, she has a folded quilt. She opens it and holds it up, her face barely visible peeking over the sweep of it.
“Made this for you,” she says. “It was almost done tonight. I just had to go home and finish sewing the binding. I was hoping you’d still be awake.”
It’s nine individual squares, and each square is a moment from our road trip, images pieced together from scraps of bright-colored fabric, just shapes and outlines but easily recognizable: her cowboy hat, the stack of quilts that sent us on our way, the view of the ocean from the beach house, the gas station where we spent the night, the quilt show, the piggyback ride, her lace underpants, the frog slippers, the airplane.
