Chapter Twenty-Seven #3
"I wasn't going to use it to convince you."
My hand stops. Sam watches my face but doesn't elaborate.
"You could have."
"I wasn't going to."
"Why?"
"Because you would've had to do something with it." His hand slides slowly down my back. "Yesterday wasn't supposed to be me showing up with evidence until you gave me the answer I wanted."
I look down at the tattoo again. "Is it me?"
"Yes."
He doesn't hesitate, and that hits harder.
"The leaves I understand."
"I assumed you would."
"And the glitter?"
Sam looks down at where my fingers rest against him. "The leaves alone didn't look right."
I wait. He exhales through his nose, and I can almost see the instinct to stop there. He doesn't.
"You leave traces. In my apartment. At Vibes. In people." His eyes come back to mine. "You go home and the room still feels like you were in it. The glitter made sense."
My vision immediately threatens mutiny. I stare at his chest because looking at him is no longer a viable option, while his thumb moves once against my back.
"Why here?" I ask.
Sam doesn't pretend he misunderstood. "Where else would I put you?"
My eyes burn. "That was rude."
"What?"
"You know exactly what."
His laugh vibrates underneath my hand. I lean down and kiss the tattoo before he can say anything else, and Sam goes still beneath me. I kiss it again, slower this time, then settle my palm over the leaves and scattered flecks. His hand covers mine.
We stay that way until the room settles around us again, my palm still over the piece of him he chose to carry without ever knowing whether I'd see it.
Room service eventually appears, and by then the moment has softened enough that I can breathe around it.
Somewhere in the process I acquire Sam's shirt and lose interest in finding my own clothes.
We eat on the bed with the tray between us until Sam moves it to the floor.
When I stretch my legs across his lap afterward, he hooks one arm loosely over my shins and rests his hand on my calf.
Neither of us comments on it. We don't need to.
I watch him for a while instead. Rain freckles the window behind him, and tires hiss over the wet street below. Sam is reading the back of a wine bottle with far more concentration than it deserves, one hand around my foot as if no time has passed at all.
His phone is on the nightstand beside the bed, the flight still there because he is supposed to leave today.
Later, when the room has gone softer and the food tray has disappeared into the hallway, I settle against his chest again. His fingers move absently through my hair while I listen to his heartbeat.
"Ask me for something."
His hand stops. "What?"
"You heard me."
He says nothing. I lift my head and find him staring toward the ceiling. I recognize the look now, the one where he's searching for a version that costs him less, so I don't help him find one.
His eyes eventually come down to mine. "I don't want to leave today."
There is nothing polished about the admission.
I prop myself higher on his chest. "Then don't."
His jaw tightens slightly. "I want to change my flight."
"Okay."
"Two more nights."
I study him. Sam's hand settles at my waist.
"I'm not asking you to clear two days for me."
That catches me. "I have things I can't move."
"Then don't move them."
"I have a venue meeting."
"Go to it."
"And a call I probably can move."
"Only if you want to."
I stare at him. This is the same man who once acted like rearranging anything for another person was a small personal apocalypse.
"You really want to stay."
"Yes."
"And if I'm working half the time?"
"I'll survive."
"Will you?"
"I've heard London has things."
I laugh. "Things."
"Buildings. Food. Several bridges."
"Excellent research."
"I was busy."
His hand moves once along my waist. "I want whatever time you want to give me. I don't want you cutting pieces out of your life because I'm here. But I don't want to get on that plane today just because that's what I booked before I knew you wanted this too."
My heart squeezes. "So change it."
Sam reaches for his phone. There is no speech or dramatic pause. He opens the reservation, looks at me once while the options load and chooses a flight two days later. A few taps later, the confirmation screen appears.
"Done."
I take the phone from his hand long enough to check the new return. "You actually did it."
"You told me to."
"I did not. You asked."
Sam looks at me, and I watch the distinction register.
"You're right."
I hand the phone back. "I can move the call. I want to. The venue meeting stays."
"Good."
"I'll probably be gone a few hours."
"I'll find something to do."
"Please don't buy another bar."
"No promises."
I laugh and settle back against him. His phone lands facedown on the nightstand. The flight is changed. My venue meeting is still happening. One call will move because I want it to, not because I think loving him requires me to prove anything.
Sam's hand finds mine where it rests over the new tattoo and covers it. He asked. I answered. And neither of us had to disappear to make room.