Chapter 34 #2
“It’s not like I knock over chocolate fountains or light things on fire in public.”
“It wasn’t that.”
“Then what?”
He exhales. “It was Olivia’s day.”
“It was your day, too.”
“Yes, but Olivia was the one who’d always dreamed about her engagement party.”
“I still don’t understand. If you were embarrassed by me, you can tell me. I know I’m not as polished as Olivia. I know Patricia probably forced you to give me a job, and you pitied me, but I’m a lot more resilient than you might think.”
His jaw tightens. “Do we have to do this right now?”
“Your mom trusted me with the family’s secret recipe,” I say quietly. “You can trust me, too.”
He steps forward, close enough that I can feel the warmth of him. Then, slowly, he reaches out and tucks a lock of hair behind my ear, his knuckles grazing my cheek in a touch so gentle it steals my breath.
“It wasn’t pity. It wasn’t embarrassment.”
“Then what?”
He leans in, voice low. “It was you. You were the distraction. I didn’t want Olivia to see the way I looked at you.”
My heart stops. I blink at him, stunned. And then—
He kisses me. Softly. Like he’s afraid I might vanish.
It’s not a kiss that demands anything. It’s a kiss that says, I see you. I’ve seen you for years. And I kiss him back like I finally believe it.
I break away, a little lightheaded, my heart pounding, my eyes still closed.
“Mmmm… did I say dessert’s ready?”
“Surely it can wait?” he laughs.
“Patricia was adamant that it be served warm.”
“That’s why microwaves were invented.”
“So that people can make out while their dessert gets cold?”
“Now you’re catching on.”
His fingers toy with the buttons of my blouse—slow, teasing—as if unwrapping a secret. I let out a shaky breath.
The kitchen smells like sugar and heat and something wild. My skirt brushes higher as he steps between my legs, his hands sliding along my thighs like he’s memorizing the landscape. His mouth finds the soft space just below my collarbone, then his breath is hot through the lace of my bra. My nipples tighten beneath the damp fabric.
He pins me gently against the wall, his kisses growing hungrier, his hands still careful, still coaxing. Mine curl into his shirt, not tugging him closer but anchoring. Letting go and holding on at once.
“Gavin …” I murmur, voice hoarse.
He stills. His forehead rests against mine.
“I think you were trying to explain that you don’t hate me,” I say.
He exhales, warm against my cheek, and his fingers find another button on my blouse. It slips free with a soft pop.
“It was the opposite,” he says.
Then another button.
“I think I was struck by you, the first time I met you.”
His knuckles brush the skin of my chest, and I swear I feel it all the way through me.
“I couldn’t get you out of my head. Ordinarily that would mean I’d ask you out, except …”
Another button.
He’s not even looking at what he’s doing. Just me.
“You were dating my baby brother.”
I swallow hard. “Right.”
The last button slips free. His gaze drops to my chest. Just for a second. When he looks back up, something’s shifted. His eyes are darker now. I can sense him struggling to hold onto the thread of his thoughts.
“I thought Olivia deserved to have an engagement party with a fiancé who wasn’t infatuated with another woman in the room. I couldn’t risk having you there, for her sake.”
My heart aches. Because I’m not sure if I’m more shocked by the word infatuated or the way he’s looking at me right now, or the realization that I am the woman who broke his heart. That Gavin has loved me all these years.
My blouse hangs open between us, but he doesn’t touch me. Not yet. It’s like he’s waiting to see what I’ll do now that I know.
I should say something. Anything. But the words are stuck in my throat, tangled with all the years I didn’t know how to see him this way.
“I am sorry about Olivia,” I manage.
“Don’t be. It’s not the first time.”
That stops me. “What?”
“Why do you look so shocked?” he asks.
He slides my top off of me, kissing the space between my breasts, slow and reverent.
“I can’t fathom why any woman would cheat on you. At least now that I know you’re not a jerk.”
He laughs, throwing his head back. The sound is warm and gorgeous, and it sparks heat low in my stomach.
“You’re attractive, intelligent, kind,” I go on, my voice thinner now, barely trusting itself.
“You think I’m attractive?”
“Let’s just say that if you kissed me again, I wouldn’t stop you.”
“And if I wanted more than a kiss?”
My pulse stutters.
“You’ll have to find out,” I whisper.
Then, without warning, he lifts me in his arms.
“Gavin!”
“We’re not stopping now,” he says, carrying me down the hallway.
The bedroom is dim, moonlight filtering through gauzy curtains.
He lays me down gently on the bed, then slides my skirt down my legs.
I’m in nothing but a bra and panties. Thank God I went with black lace. Matching, even. The nicest set I own, which feels—suddenly—like a life choice I should be proud of.
His eyes sweep me—lingering without rushing—like he’s trying to take me in and not overwhelm me at the same time. His voice comes out wrecked and reverent.
“You’re fucking beautiful.”
The moonlight catches the tension in his jaw, the way his chest rises like he’s wrestling something physical. He strips off his shirt, and for a second, I forget how to breathe. His body is all quiet strength: broad shoulders, a lean waist, and along his ribs, the ink isn’t decoration, it’s a small private litany: the Sanskrit words for love, split into its truest forms—familial, platonic devotion, romantic—as if he’s sharing his life philosophy in plain sight.