“Chance, goddammit—”
“Try it.”
Every muscle tensed, not breathing, not daring to so much as blink, I’m trapped inside the curl of his arm, pinned to his side.
Forced snuggles.
If I wasn’t so panicked, freaked out, and pissed off, I’d almost find it funny.
I wriggle. “Let go,” I snarl. “Get off me.”
“I’m not on you, I’m holding you. Humor me for thirty fuckin’ seconds, Annika. Close your eyes. Relax. Take three deep breaths. You do that, genuinely, and you still want me to let you go, I will.”
“Swear?”
The arm wrapped over me—which seems to weigh approximately as much as I do—lifts slightly, and his pinky appears, extended toward my hands. “Swear.”
I can’t help a laugh. “Really? A pinky swear?”
“Sure,” he laughs. “Real men pinky swear.”
I ignore his hand. “Well real women don’t. Or at least this one doesn’t.” I let out a breath. “Fine, fuck.”
Mainly because surging underneath the panic is a strong current of security and enjoyment, I close my eyes and force my muscles to unclench, one by one. Toes. Calves. Thighs. Belly. Arms. Shoulders. Neck. Same way I get to sleep at night—the only way I can. I pull in a long, slow, deep breath through my nose, let it out just as slowly. Again. A third time.
By the end of the third breath, I can’t ignore the fact that I feel…safe. That I don’t utterly hate, loathe, and despise being held by him like this.
Which, in and of itself is just fucking weird.
Before I can say anything, he speaks. His voice is a quiet rumble, like faraway thunder. “My dad called my mother that—mama. It was his thing. He…he fuckin’ loved her so goddamn hard, shit. You don’t even know. The shit that man did for her.” He’s quiet a moment, then lets out a sigh. “That was his…whaddyou call it. His term of endearment for her. Don’t know I ever heard him call her by her actual name. Just…mama. I guess I sort of absorbed it.”
“So you call all your girlfriends mama, then.”
Another pause. “Nope.”
“You don’t?”
“Nope.”
I twist my head to look up at him. “Why not?”
“Well, cause first and foremost, never really had what you’d consider a girlfriend. And also, the women whohavebeen in my life…I wouldn’t call ’em that. Callin’ a woman mama, for me, is…it’s for when it’s special.”
I choke on my shock. “Wh-what? Why?”
He laughs. “Why? What do you mean, why? I just told you.”
“No—me. Why me? Why do you callmemama, then? I’m not special to you. You don’t even know me.”
“You are.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Sure is,” he agrees.
I cackle. “Oh, great, thanks.”
He barks a laugh. “Hey now, you’re laying here in my arms, in my bed with me. I’m telling you there’s something special about you—and you say it’s ridiculous, then get pissy when I agree?”
