Chapter Eight #2
“We’re in a hotel in Ohio on a case. There was only one room, remember?
We had to share.” The line between his eyebrows deepens until I want to rub my thumb along it to smooth it out.
I need him to be smirking, testing my patience.
I don’t want him looking at me like this .
. . like there’s something wrong with me.
He tentatively reaches out to take my hand, and I let him.
“I remember. Sorry . . . I was having a . . .” I swallow hard, not knowing what to call it.
“You were having a nightmare. Are you okay? You’re safe here with me. I’m not going to let anything happen to you, okay, princess?”
Princess.
It had to be princess that the masked man whispered in my ear.
I pull myself up, checking my phone for the time—3 a.m.
I head to the bathroom and splash some cold water on my face.
In every other dream I’d had, it’s some version of the same thing.
Chased by a masked man in the dark. This isn’t the first time I got caught; this isn’t the first time I felt his hands on my body, but it’s the first time he called me princess.
Princess.
I slip back under the covers, shivering slightly, and Jonesy pulls me back against his chest.
Jesus.
His hand splays against my stomach, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin just underneath the soft swell of my breast. It’s too familiar. Too much like the dream, even the hard broadness of his chest feels the same. His hot breath on my ear.
I shake my head, pulling away from him.
“No,” he whispers.
“I can’t.”
“Because of Detective Williams?”
I frown then, twisting my body until I’m facing him.
His palm is on my back now, and he shows no signs of moving it.
His tongue runs along his bottom lip, his nose almost grazing mine.
We're so close. I rest my hand on his chest, and his lips part slightly, a small frown forming between his eyes.
I can feel the strength of his chest beneath my fingertips.
I can see the hard swallow in his throat as he waits for me to reply.
“I’m not seeing Detective Williams,” I admit out loud.
And almost as quickly as my confession leaves my lips, I feel relief.
My feelings for Anthony are confusing. I like him.
I find him attractive, of course; he’s gorgeous.
He’s dedicated and never ceases to make time for me.
But despite his patience, there’s an undercurrent of him waiting and putting his love life on hold for me.
“Do you want to?” he whispers.
“You’ve already asked me this.”
“You gave me an evasive answer last time, princess. I’m many things, but I’m not going to lie in bed with another man’s woman.”
“Is that all I am to you? Another man’s woman?” I tsk, rolling my eyes.
“Princess . . .” His strong fingers thread through the loose strands of my hair, pushing them back away from my face. It feels good, too good. I don’t trust him enough that he won’t take it all away from me just as I start to feel anything other than annoyance toward him.
“Please don’t . . .” I close my eyes for a moment, repeating the word in my head over and over. “Don’t call me that.”
The hand on my back shifts, his fingertips trailing along my side, up past my breast until he winds a tendril of hair around his finger. Wrapping and unwrapping.
“Is it because you don’t like it? Or because you do?” he whispers, his voice rough and gravelly.
“Please, not tonight.”
He observes me for a moment, halting his play with my hair so he can focus on me.
For a moment, I think he might ask another question.
Ask me what my dream was about. What could I tell him?
That my dream involved a masked man chasing me down a street?
Grabbing me and pulling me back against him, just like he had done.
Calling me princess, just like he did. I could never admit that to him.
He’d hold it against me for eternity. I’d lose every argument, every game, every fight.
I’d never make myself that vulnerable in front of him.
Even if it means begging him to stop with all the questions.
Losing now so I can win again later is a sacrifice I’m willing to make.
He says nothing, and we hold each other's gaze.
Is this another game? To see who cuts out first?
It’s like he can read my mind when he says, “You’d better get comfortable, Katie. Because after you just threw yourself out of bed because of a nightmare, I’m not letting you go all night.”
“That seems unnecessary . . .”
“You screaming and waking up the rest of the hotel as if I’m murdering you is unnecessary,” he quips, turning off the light before sliding his arm beneath my neck, his hand firmly placed on my back again.
“Jonesy . . .”
“Don’t make me repeat myself, prin— Katie. Close your eyes and pretend that I’m not someone you hate.”
He said the same thing last weekend when we stayed at Lottie’s.
But now I’m worried that I don’t hate him.
I’ve been hiding behind my anger for so long, and I don’t know what to do with it when he’s kind like this.
When he takes care of me, it actually works.
I’ve loathed him for so long. Tolerated him only for the sake of our mutual friends, whom I love.
His breathing steadies out; low huffs rumble from his throat, and I watch him in the dark, his chest rising and falling.
I try to sleep, but I’m too wired. I think about it all.
Anthony, the case, Thomas, and his relentless letter-writing hobby, Jonesy.
Of all the things I need right now. Something sensible and stable isn’t it.
Without turning into a completely self-absorbed person who thinks the whole world revolves around her, could Jonesy coming into my life right now be a sign?
I’ve always believed that the universe doesn’t give you what you want; it gives you what you need.
And Anthony is the kind of man you should want.
He’s principled, kind, and loving. He’s so patient it hurts.
He hasn’t rushed me in over a year. He understands the toll the Thomas Vale case has taken, and he’s waited, anyway.
He’s been my friend, my colleague, remaining professional only up until this week when he felt threatened by Jonesy’s presence.
Jonesy, however, is not what I want at all.
Is it possible he’s the only person who could give me what I need right now?
He’s willing to take care of me. He’s not afraid of me, even when I’m at my worst, and somehow that makes me feel like he knows me better than anyone in the world.
No one else has seen how awful I can be.
My competitiveness doesn’t scare him; it makes him step up.
When I push him away, he tells me to fight him. When I steal the blanket, he steals it right back. And when I wake up screaming and shaking, he holds me even when my pride is wounded.
I think Jacob Jones might be the only person who can save me.