My thighs are sticky, but I’m not ready to leave this bed. And before we discuss what happened tonight, there’s something important I want to say.
“Thank you for coming with me. And for staying. In the city, I mean. I didn’t want you to, but ... I’m really happy you’re here.”
Gideon threads his fingers through the ends of my hair, and his eyes glitter with a fathomless wealth of emotion. “I couldn’t leave you.”
“Because of the list?” I say it lightly, not daring to hope his reasoning runs deeper than that.
He shakes his head slowly, his eyes never leaving mine. “Not because of the list.”
My insides quake like I’m standing at the edge of a precipice, and I’m terrified there won’t be anything—anyone—to catch me if I fall. Still, I ask, “Then why?”
“Come on, Valencia.” His tone is chiding. “You know why.”
I let out a shuddering breath. “I’ve had a rough couple of days. Maybe you’d better spell it out.”
He gazes at me for so long my pulse skyrockets again.
Finally, he speaks. “I couldn’t leave you, because ... I love you.”
Everything in me stills.
“You do?” My voice comes out small and uncertain. Hopeful.
He nods.
“Are you sure?”
“Valencia.” His voice is utterly calm. “Where’s your overnight bag?”
I glance over the side of the bed, where I left a large tote bag the day before. It’s not there.
“Top drawer, on the right.”
I squint at the dresser. I’m sure he doesn’t mean what I think he means, but I climb off the bed and open the drawer.
Sure enough, my spare clothes are neatly folded alongside his crisp white undershirts.
I clear my throat. “And my toiletries?”
“Bathroom. First drawer on the left. That entire sink area is yours.”
My heart races. Something is happening, but I’m too afraid to name it.
Except ... we agreed to communicate, right? I can justaskhim.
I shut the drawer carefully. “What does this mean, Gideon?”
He leaves the bed and comes over to me. We’re still naked, and I’m momentarily distracted by the shift of his muscles as he walks. Suddenly, he’s right in front of me, brushing a lock of hair over my ear.
“It means ...” He bites that captivating lower lip, and his tone turns wry. “That I’m writing a eulogy for my leather sofa.”
I blink, pulling my gaze from his mouth to his eyes. “What? Why?”
He grimaces. “I’ve seen what your cat did to yours.”
“My—my cat? Archimedes?”
“Do you have another cat who’s been hiding this whole time?”
