50. Gwen
Gwen
“Talk to me. Tell me what you’re thinking.
” Easton’s touch is always intentional, never casual.
So when he sweeps his thumbs on my cheeks and pushes his big hands into my hair, it’s his way of expressing his feelings without saying them.
Calming the storm in his mind right along with the one ever present in mine.
We’re down to minutes. Maybe even seconds before Dad returns.
I’m keenly aware of the timer above our heads, but I’m stuck here like a statue.
Not of indecision, but one still rooted in deep hurt.
And no, not by this man, by past afflictions and asshole ex-boyfriends and a mother who cared more about image than my self-worth.
Speak, come on, say something. It’s my nature to cut and run before I can be hurt. But I’m done with that. I need to fight through the trauma trying to pull me underwater and drown me. Resurface with fresh air in my lungs now that I have my best friend telling me he’s in love with me.
“It’s okay if you don’t feel the same. You know that, right?” His stare doesn’t wander. It lands and stays on my face. “You don’t have to be there yet just because I am.” His voice cracks, and the emotion slipping through has my thoughts scattering like dropped glass.
My mind gives way to a rare moment of silence as all competing thoughts drift free.
“E,” I whisper, blinking back tears. “I’ve never been in love before.
How do I even know love love from friendship love?
” I swallow. “I mean, sure, I’m mature for my age, and I had to grow up fast. But you have more life experience than me.
I hope you don’t mistake my asking this for saying I don’t, but—”
“You are younger.” A line forms between his brows as he quietly stares at me.
“And that’s one of the reasons I fought my feelings for you so damn hard.
” He pushes off the wall and settles both hands on my cheeks.
“It’s funny, but when I was younger, I used to think everyone in their thirties and forties had it all figured out, and damn was I wrong.
” His words caress my skin, warming me. “Because here I am forty with all that experience you say I have, and I don’t know a whole lot of anything.
” His throat bobs with a hard swallow. “Except for how I feel about you.”
My heart stutters, and I open my lips to say something, but no sound comes out.
“But you’re right. There’re different kinds of love, and I’m not even sure how to classify any of them. What I do know is you’re the only one I won’t survive without. I tried to. I fucking ran away. And like I told you back on that island, I would have come back. Even if none of this happened.”
“And?” I press closer against him.
He slips his hands into my hair. “And you’re the only one I want to make love to. The only one I want to do that with for the rest of my life. Even without ever having done it with you . . . I just know.”
My breath catches, and I keep it captive for a few seconds before letting it go. “How long have you known?” I manage out around strangled emotions.
“When did I finally listen to my heart and accept it all? The minute I thought I might lose you again on that island. But that was just the catalyst for my brain to get on board. I would say I knew a long time ago. Probably around the time I introduced you to that Richard Marx song.”
The chorus from “Right Here Waiting” hums in my mind and fills every crack and crevice of past pain, replacing it with something else. Love. “Why then?”
His mouth crooks into a smile. “The night before the song, I was carrying you to bed after you passed out on the couch next to me, and I . . .” His eyes become slits as he peers at me, and he takes a beat, pausing.
“I was staring down at your face as I held you in my arms and my heart started to hurt in a way I can’t put into words. ”
“Hurt because?”
He exhales deeply. “Because I realized you already had my heart, but I didn’t think you and I could ever be together. So the pain of knowing that and feeling the way I did was unbearable.”
My God. I felt that way, too. Does that mean . . .?
“I know I want to give you my heart,” I finally admit, letting more and more of my walls down. “Wrap it in silk and watch you open it like a gift and see what you do with it, but I’m still just—”
“Scared,” he finishes for me, brows stitching together as he works his hands from my hair to the sides of my arms, gripping gently.
“Why are you so understanding?” My lips pull to the side. “So perfect?”
“Far from perfect.” He studies my lips like he’s memorizing the shape they take when I watch him. “I have issues.”
“Like?” I fix my hands to his waist.
A sobering sigh leaves his mouth. “For starters, I enjoyed killing those men on the island. That feels issue-y.” His eyes tighten on me beneath thick brows. “And I’m an overthinker and that can be problematic sometimes. I overthought my way into almost losing you for good by leaving.”
I’m about to remind him I forgive him, but he keeps going.
“And I’m scared that my being older might hold you back one day. That’s the last thing in the world I ever want to do to you.” He frowns, eyes falling between our bodies. “Then there’s the big problem. I’m selfish.”
“No you’re not,” I blurt out.
“I am.” His dark irises pierce mine as he admits, “Because when I die, I don’t want you to find someone else after me.
” He lifts one shoulder. “I’ll have to haunt any guy who so much as checks you out.
Extra poltergeist action if they give you their number.
I’m not like these other guys who want their wives to move on and be happy if they die. ”
Wife? I blink in shock.
He cups my chin and angles his head, closing in on my mouth, but he holds the kiss back. “So yeah, you’ll have to be stuck with me even if I’m dead. I’ll haunt the hell out of you so you’re never truly without me.”
Tears fill my eyes and one breaks free. “That’s the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me.”
His brows rise, like he misheard me.
“And if you don’t think I’ll haunt your arse, too, then you don’t know me at all.” I push a laugh through my tears, sniffling.
And wait a minute . . . did I imply back that I want forever with him without hesitation? No overthinking. My firewalls came down, and I—
A hard Dad-like rap at the door kills my train of thought, or my chance to talk more about his “wife” comment.
Time’s up.
“Gwen?” Dad’s voice is urgent. Not good.
Easton steps aside and subtly adjusts himself while I clean the tears from my cheeks with the sleeves of his hoodie.
“Good?” he mouths, hand on the doorknob.
Just barely, but I nod.
He opens up, and Dad’s large frame fills the doorway, mobile in his hand.
Someone had to have given him that. “We have incoming.” Dad’s gaze bounces between us, panic set deep in his brow.
“Natasha called Gideon’s inside man. There are three SWAT vehicles en route.
We don’t know if they’re legit or posing as Swiss officers. ”
Oh shit.
“Gray already talked to his dad. The Brits were just called off and told to exfil in case they’re real officers, but we don’t have enough time to explain to the Swiss what’s going on before they get here.”
“Is the plan a bust, or are we waiting to see if—”
“It’s too late,” Natasha interrupts me, and I didn’t realize she was on speakerphone. “They’re on scene.”
“And?” Dad holds the mobile in front of him, chest heaving with a deep breath. “Are we engaging or not?”
“They’re legit,” Natasha rushes out. “You need to get the hell out of there and now.”