CHAPTER 10
Ciara’s POV:
The television screen was nothing but a canvas of shifting liquid light, painting the room in a quiet, expensive spectrum of deep indigo, amber, and gold.
On the screen, some over-produced episode of The Perfect Match was playing out, a bunch of hyper-groomed influencers arguing about "connections" and "compatibility" on a beach that looked too clean to be real. But out here in the real world, inside the quiet, cathedral-like stillness of Joshua’s living room, the real match was already made, and we weren't playing for the cameras.
I sat with my legs tucked up under me on his deep, butter-soft chocolate leather sofa, entirely tangled up in the warm, magnetic pull of the man next to me.
Joshua Willis was a whole event, honey. Six-foot-eight of pure, unadulterated, intellectual chocolate-wrapper white boy.
His long, spun-gold blonde hair was pulled back into a neat, low ponytail that looked like it belonged to some high-end European fashion director, highlighting the sharp, clinical, almost impossibly symmetrical angles of his jawline.
And those pale, ice-blue eyes of his? Sweet Jesus.
They had a way of settling on you like a warm weight, looking straight through all the armor, the lace, and the Houston-bred defense mechanisms I’d spent my whole life perfecting.
But instead of making me feel naked, it felt like being wrapped up in a cashmere blanket.
We’d been talking for what felt like five minutes and five hours all at once.
The air in the room was thick with the rich, heavy scent of cedarwood, clean leather, and the lingering, decadent sugar of the chocolate bourbon cake we’d demolished earlier.
Now, nothing but a few dark, glossy crumbs remained on the small white porcelain plates sitting on the heavy mahogany coffee table, right next to a half-empty bottle of high-end Cabernet Sauvignon.
The wine was doing its job, sliding down my throat like warm velvet, tasting of ripe blackberries, dark soil, and a lingering hint of oak that made the spaces behind my knees ache in the most delicious way.
I looked at him over the rim of my crystal glass, my eyes lingering on the broad, massive span of his shoulders. The fine gray cotton of his button-down shirt was stretched so tight across his chest I could see the distinct, heavy shadow of his pectoral muscles shifting every time he took a breath.
“I’m still trying to wrap my mind around it, Joshua,” I said, my voice dropping into that low, smoky register I only use when I’m feeling real comfortable—or real wicked.
I gestured toward him with the stem of my glass, letting a slow, appreciative grin curve my lips.
“You? Actually bullied? Looking the way you look right now? Like some kind of Norse god who got lost on his way to an Ivy League lecture? Child, please. Childhood must’ve been an absolute alternate reality. ”
Joshua let out a low, resonant chuckle—a deep, chest-vibrating sound that sent a sudden, delicious little shiver straight down my spine and pooled right between my thighs.
He leaned back against the deep leather cushions, his long, athletic frame unfolding with a kind of lazy, dangerous grace, and draped one massive arm casually along the back of the sofa.
His fingertips brushed against the bare, warm skin of my shoulder, a light, electric contact that made my breath hitch in my throat.
“I assure you, Ciara, it was very real, and not nearly as glamorous as you’re imagining,” he said, his voice a smooth, comforting baritone that felt like a physical touch.
“Growing up poor, white, and completely out of place in a community that valued heritage, old money, and athletic mediocrity above all else...
it doesn't leave you with many allies. I didn't fit the mold.
I was the towering, awkward kid who preferred reading classical literature to playing high school football.
The other kids didn't know what to do with that, so they chose cruelty.”
I shifted my weight, my thick, golden-brown thighs pressing firmly against the dark, heavy fabric of his trousers. I could feel the heat radiating off him, a steady, pulsing warmth that made me want to slide closer, to dissolve the small pocket of air still keeping us apart.
“Cruelty is a mild word for what some of these little bastards do,” I murmured, my eyes searching his face. “People see a man like you now—successful, brilliant, looking like a whole walking meal—and they think you had it easy. They don't see the scars.”
Joshua’s blue eyes darkened, a shadow passing over his face as he looked down into his glass, swirling the dark red liquid. “The scars are the foundation, Ciara. They remind us of where the structure began. But yes, kids are monsters. There was one boy in particular... Martin.”
I leaned in, my heart doing a slow, heavy roll in my chest. My protective, South-Side-Houston instincts immediately flared up, hot and ready.
“What did this Martin do? Because let me tell you, I will personally find his adult self and show him what a real Texas-style beatdown feels like. Don't play with me.”
Joshua let out a soft, melancholic laugh, but his eyes remained serious, locked in the memories of a ten-year-old boy.
“It wasn't a playground shove, Ciara. It was the boys' restroom of our primary school.
I was ten years old. Scrawny, tall, and entirely defenseless.
Martin and three of his friends cornered me.
They pinned me down on the dirty concrete floor, holding my arms and legs so tightly I couldn't breathe. And then... Martin took a piss on me. Right there on the floor. While they all laughed.”
My stomach dropped, a cold, fierce wave of anger rushing through my veins. The image of a young, defenseless Joshua being subjected to something so humiliating, so utterly vile, made my jaw clench. My hand wrapped tightly around his forearm, my nails digging slightly into the hard, warm muscle.
“Oh, hell no,” I breathed, my voice thick with raw emotion.
“That is disgusting. That is pure, unadulterated evil. To do that to a ten-year-old child? I wish to God I could go back in time and tear those little bastards apart limb from limb. I’m so sorry you had to endure that, baby.
No one—especially not a sweet, brilliant boy like you—should ever have to carry that kind of degradation. ”
Joshua looked down at my hand on his arm, his expression softening as he saw the genuine, fierce protectiveness in my eyes. He reached over with his free hand, his large, warm palm cupping mine, his thumb gently stroking the back of my hand.
“It was humiliating,” he admitted quietly.
“But it was also the catalyst. It was the moment I realized that physical strength and numbers could be overcome by sheer, unyielding intellect.
I went home that day, cleaned myself up, and made a vow to my mother that I would never allow anyone to make me feel small again.
I buried myself in my studies. I fought my way up from the mud with pure, unadulterated brainpower.
Every academic achievement, every degree, every accolade...
it was a brick in the fortress I was building to protect us.
And most of all, I did it to make her proud.
To show her that her sacrifices weren't in vain.”
I felt a tear prick the corner of my eye, and I didn't even try to hide it. I reached up with my free hand, my fingers gently brushing a stray lock of blonde hair behind his ear, letting my palm linger against the warm, smooth skin of his jaw.
“Damn, Joshua,” I whispered, my voice trembling slightly.
“Your momma must’ve been someone truly, deeply special.
I am so incredibly sad that she passed away before I got the chance to meet her.
I wanted to look her in the eyes and thank her.
I wanted to thank the woman who birthed and raised such an incredible man—someone with a heart as beautiful as his looks.
She did a magnificent job, baby. She really did. ”
A beautiful, soft smile touched his lips, a mixture of pride and deep, nostalgic love shining in his eyes. “She was my everything, Ciara. She really was. If she were here, she would have adored you. She would have loved your strength, your directness, and your fire.”
The emotional weight in the room was beautiful, a heavy, sacred canopy that drew us closer until the space between our faces was practically non-existent. I could smell the clean, masculine scent of him, mixed with the rich aroma of the wine.
“Can I see her?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper against his lips. “Do you have any pictures of her?”
“I do,” he murmured, his eyes locked onto mine. “Give me just a second.”
He stood up, his towering six-foot-eight frame rising effortlessly from the deep sofa.
I watched him walk toward the staircase, my eyes trailing down the broad, hard lines of his back, the heavy stride of his legs, and the way his trousers hugged his backside.
He was a masterpiece, and I was about to paint my name all over him.
While he went upstairs, I leaned back against the cushions, taking a deep, slow breath to steady my racing heart.
I reached for the bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon and poured myself another generous glass, the dark, rich liquid glugging softly against the crystal.
On the screen, The Perfect Match kept playing, but the fake drama of television couldn't compete with the raw, heavy reality of the man who had just left the room.