Chapter 22
Holy Fuuuuuck (And Other Revelations)
I tugged at the hem of Matt's shirt as I pushed open his bedroom door.
My jaw practically hit the floor. This wasn't just a bedroom; this was like stumbling into some five-star resort in Santorini or the Maldives.
The white walls practically glowed, and my bare feet sank into carpet so plush I wanted to take a nap right there on the floor.
My eyes darted around the room, taking in the two massive ocean paintings that dominated opposite walls. They were the kind of art that made you feel like you could smell the salty air and hear the waves crashing.
I couldn't help but run my hand over his sheets, eight-hundred-thread-count, I'd bet my life on it. They were the kind of sheets that probably cost more than my rent, the kind that made you want to burrow in and never leave.
Matt, wearing nothing but his boxer briefs, opened the French doors, and I completely forgot how to breathe.
The terrace stretched out in front of us, and beyond that?
Nothing but endless, sparkling ocean as far as the eye could see.
The breeze hit my face, and for a moment I wondered if I'd somehow been transported to my own personal paradise.
If this were my house, I would never leave.
"So," I began, aiming for casual despite the circus act my heart was performing behind my ribs, "do you always live like you're on permanent vacation, or is this just for special occasions?"
Matt raised one eyebrow. Seriously, who gave this man permission to be that coordinated with his facial expressions? And said, "What kind of exotic locations are you comparing this to?"
I laughed, probably too loudly. "Oh, you know, all those glamorous places I've been. Like… my local Target. Very exotic. They have a Starbucks inside."
"Wait, seriously?" He looked genuinely shocked, like I'd just told him I'd never seen a movie before.
"Unless you count that time I accidentally drove into Canada, but I turned around at the border."
"You turned around at the border?" He repeated.
"Listen, they wanted to see my passport, and all I had was a grocery receipt and half a granola bar, so I made an executive decision."
Matt moved closer, and suddenly the massive terrace felt about as spacious as a phone booth. A very romantic, ocean-scented phone booth. "Why haven't you traveled?"
I took a deep breath, tasting the salty air and what I was fairly certain was expensive cologne, mixed with the faint scent of success. "Traveling comes with a lot of anxiety for me."
"Heights?" He glanced back at the terrace.
"Not exactly."
"Then what, exactly?" His voice went softer, like he was talking to a spooked cat.
I lowered my voice, looking out at the moonlit ocean instead of at him.
"I'm scared of not fitting in the seat." Traveling as a plus-size woman comes with a whole handbook of anxieties.
The fear of not fitting in the seat is only page one.
There are also the stares and the whispers.
Possibly encroaching on someone else's space.
The fear of judgment from complete strangers.
Before I could spiral into a full-scale internal monologue about the logistics of plus-size travel anxiety, Matt stepped forward and pulled me into his arms with the kind of confidence that suggested he'd been practicing this move in front of a mirror.
"I understand that more than you think," he said, and his voice rumbled against my ear in a way that was not fair to my cardiovascular system.
"Really?" I squeaked, because apparently that's what my voice does now.
"I'm a 6'4", two-hundred-and-eighty-seven-pound giant with legs that belong on a basketball player. People see me coming and immediately start praying to whatever God handles airplane seating arrangements."
I pulled back to look at him. There was a difference between the way people looked at Matt and the way they looked at me, but I suppose on an airplane with a tiny seat and even less legroom, we were the same. "I never thought about…"
"But here's the thing," he said, and his smile was the kind that should come with a warning about potential swooning. "That's not something you'd have to worry about with me."
"Why, because you have a body shrinking machine hidden in this fortress of luxury?"
He laughed, and the sound made my stomach do that flippy thing. "I usually fly private. And on the rare occasion I don't, first class seats are basically small living rooms."
"Says the man who makes a million dollars every time he smiles. Us café owners have to be a little more frivolous with our spending."
His arms squeezed around me, and I felt something crack open in my chest, the good kind of crack. "Like I said, you don't have to worry about that when you're with me."
"So," I tried to regain some composure while still wrapped in his arms, "is this the part where you tell me you're actually a prince or something equally ridiculous?"
He laughed, and I yawned. "You ready for bed?"
"Yeah." I was ready to go to bed, but I wasn't ready for sleep.
We each crawled onto our sides of the bed, sliding under the thick comforter and quickly shifting and moving until we were exactly where we wanted to be.
The cool night air stirred against our skin as moonlight spilled through the window.
I lay curled against Matt's chest, one of his arms cradling my head while the other pulled me close.
My face nestled into the hollow where his shoulder curved into his neck, that perfect space that seemed carved just for me.
"Speaking of traveling," Matt whispered, his chest vibrating against my cheek. The rhythm of his heartbeat had nearly lulled me to sleep.
I hummed acknowledgment, too comfortable to form actual words.
"I have a trip to Ireland coming up."
My eyes snapped open. The drowsy cocoon of contentment dissolved as I processed his words. Ireland. A country, an ocean away from me.
I pulled back just enough to search his face. "Ireland? Like, Emerald Isle, thousand-shades-of-green Ireland?"
"The very same." His smile was soft, but his eyes were serious. "It's for work, but…"
"But?"
"But I'd have plenty of time to watch you discover a place you've never been." His finger traced my collarbone, leaving goosebumps in its wake. "I want you to come with me."
My heart raced ahead while my mind stumbled to catch up. "For how long?"
He hesitated. Just long enough for me to know the answer mattered. "A month."
"A month." The words fell between us like stones in still water. My café. Karen. My responsibilities. All the sensible reasons I couldn't possibly…
"I can see those wheels turning." His thumb brushed across my furrowed brow. "You don't have to answer now. Just… think about it. See if there's a way."
This wasn't just about Ireland. This was about us, about what might be possible, about whether I was brave enough to find out.
He pressed his soft, full lips to my forehead, kissing it. "I don't want to go without you."
I pulled back, looking up at him as his finger played with my hair. I reached up, touching his beard. "Are you saying you'd miss me?"
He pinched my chin between his thumb and finger, tilting my head up to him. "Terribly." The heat of his breath fanned across my lips. "I'm not sure I'd be able to function without you." He pressed his lips to mine in a soft, sweet kiss.
"You should probably show me how much," I murmured against his mouth.
He tugged me closer to him. "I think I can do that.
" And he kissed me hard and fast, devouring my mouth.
His leg slid in between mine as his hand traveled around my hip and grabbed my ass.
The kiss was frantic and messy as his tongue slipped in and out of my mouth, tasting and teasing mine, but his hands not so much.
His hands said he wanted to savor every moment.
Every touch. Like he was storing every curve of my body to memory.
He shifted his weight, and the world tilted with him.
His borrowed shirt, my flimsy armor, betrayed me, riding up my thighs as he rolled me to my back.
First came the weight of him, solid and certain.
Then his thighs eased mine apart. My fingers found his biceps, mapping territory that tensed beneath my touch.
He was big everywhere, and I loved the way he made me feel so small under him.
A slight arch of my spine, it was an invitation.
The first slow roll of his hips against mine sent electricity racing up my spine, and the moan that escaped me seemed to belong to someone else entirely.
His hand began a journey down my side, each inch of progress marked by my quickening breath, until his fingers found the hem of my shirt.
He broke the kiss then, but his eyes held mine, asking a question we both already knew the answer to.
We moved in sync as he lifted, sitting back on his legs, towering over me. His heated gaze followed my shirt as he slid it up, exposing my bare skin. I rose off the bed, lifting my arms as he pulled it over my head before discarding it across the room.
His tongue emerged, tracing a slow path along his bottom lip before he caught it between his teeth. The sharp edge of desire in his expression made me feel powerful and vulnerable in equal measure.
"You are so fucking beautiful." His eyes traced over every inch of me, and my body broke out in chills.
My cheeks heated. I wasn't very good at taking compliments. Maybe because I'd rarely gotten them, or maybe because I'd been convinced the few I did get were all lies.
"Thank you," I whispered, the words barely audible even to my own ears. Two simple syllables that failed to mask the doubt lurking beneath them.
Matt studied me, his gaze lingering as if reading a language written on my skin. The smile that curved his lips wasn't the confident smirk I'd come to expect. This was something quieter, more dangerous.
"You don't believe me." Not a question.