The honesty and vulnerability in his voice made my chest tight, so I leaned up to kiss him, hard and messy, pulling his lower lip between my teeth.
“Same,” I admitted a few breathless moments later. “I want you, Delaney. That was never in question.”
Delaney settled himself against me with a sigh. “Maybe we should?—”
“Tell me about the article you’re supposed to be writing,” I blurted, changing the subject before I could say anything more revealing. “No breakthroughs, you said? No mustache-twirling bad guys revealing themselves?”
“Shockingly, no.” His nose wrinkled adorably. “I can’t remember how much I told you, but the goal of the article is to expose this really shitty housing developer, Empire Ridge. I have evidence that shows they’ve done a bunch of shady stuff, but what I really want is to prove—” He frowned up at me. “Hey, you okay? You just got all tense.”
“Did I? Sorry,” I said, forcing myself to relax. “I recognized the name. Empire Ridge.”
“Oh my God.” Delaney threw a leg over me and twisted up to prop his chin on my chest. “I’m such an idiot. I can’t believe I didn’t ask myrenovation specialistif he knew the fuckinghugeconstruction company that’s headquartered, like, two hours from here!” He rolled his eyes. “Have you worked with them? Or do you know anyone who has, who’d want to go on the record for my article?”
I took a deep breath… then hesitated. It was on the tip of my tongue to tell Delaney the whole truth right then—that Empire Ridge had bought my grandfather’s house and destroyed it, just as surely as my father had destroyed my grandfather’s company, that I hated everything they stood for—but I couldn’t.
Here in Delaney’s bed, in his arms, I washappy. Delaney was, too, I thought. Dredging up ghosts of the past wasn’t how I wanted to spend this night.
“I’ve never worked with them,” I answered honestly. “I’ve heard of people who have and regretted it.”
Delaney nodded and settled himself against me again. “Truth,” he said. “They’re sharks who’ve fucked over a lot of people.”
“Which is why,” I couldn’t resist adding, “only unscrupulous people get involved with them in the first place.”
“Or desperate people. Either way…” Delaney yawned hugely. “This story’s going nowhere, which means I’m not leaving for Costa Rica anytime soon.”
Costa Rica. Right.Fuck.
I tightened my arm around him, suddenly afraid of how easily I could get used to this—to having him beside me, in bed and in life.
I wanted to build things that lasted. That was who I was at my core. And Delaney…
Delaney was a hurricane, just as I’d told him. He’d moved to Copper County on impulse, he’d blown things into chaos, and soon he’d move on, first to Costa Rica and then to wherever his next story led. Hurricanes didn’t stick around long.
“You okay?” Delaney asked again, his voice thick and drowsy.
“Yeah,” I lied. “Fine. Just tired.”
He hummed in acknowledgment, his breathing already evening out as sleep claimed him, but I lay awake a while longer, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against my chest.
I knew whatever Delaney and I had was temporary. It couldn’t be serious, and it would be foolish to let myself believe it could. But as Delaney shifted in his sleep, his body instinctively seeking mine, I wondered if I had any choice in the matter.
Because the truth was, it wasn’t just physical like I’d tried so hard to convince myself.
I couldn’t remember a time when I’d felt as content, as calm, and as purelymyselfas I did curled up against this man who was my opposite in every way but had somehow burrowed past all my defenses.
My last thought before sleep claimed me was that I was going to enjoy this ride for as long as it lasted, even knowing the tracks might run out long before I was ready.
After all, hurricanes were known for leaving devastation behind.
CHAPTERTHIRTEEN
DELANEY
I’d always beena one-obsession-at-a-time guy; ask anyone. I’d date one person—usually the worst possible person—until I realized I was super unhappy, and then I’d move on. I’d throw myself into a story, chase it to the ends of the Earth, then move on to the next. A serial obsession monogamist, if you will.
But as I strolled down Weaver Street in O’Leary on Wednesday morning with a wrapped painting under my arm, I found myself obsessing over not one butthreedifferent things because, apparently, I was becoming an overachiever.
First was the obsession I was callingE. Winters and the Jam Cupboard Mystery—which, yes, sounded like the title of a lesser-known Hardy Boys book, but I was going with it.
