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Whatever she sees on my face has her shaking her head. All those golden-red tresses slip over her shoulders, tempting my fingers. I should have kept my fucking mouth shut. I’d already be inside her.
Her eyes narrow.
“Almost got a smile out of you.” She squeezes my shoulders.
I huff a laugh because it’s impossible to do anything else when she looks at me like she’s daring me to stay silent. To stay morose.
“How do you do that?” I ask, chest full of awe.
“Do what?”
“Know exactly what I need.” Reach inside and soothe me like a healing balm.
“I’m a people watcher, Mr. Hunt. And I’ve watched you for years. Across the room at all those galas where you’d nod at people in their tuxedos. Every time you stopped by to meet Gabe after our board meetings. I always wondered why you never let yourself be happy. And now I know, don’t I?”
Her eyes twinkle like gemstones, full of conviction and warmth. Not an ounce of pity. Pain, yes. Understanding, absolutely. That’s the most beautiful part. When she looks at me, it’s like she sees me in ways no one else can. The depths of my soul feel brighter under her steady gaze. Like I can handle anything, tackle anything.
And all that time, I thought I was the one doing the watching, the daydreaming.
Would she have ever made a move if I hadn’t gone to that auction with one goal in mind?
Her lips pull up, and I realize how pointless it is to second-guess the trajectory of our relationship. We’re here now. She’s in my lap, in my arms, looking at me like she knows my every secret, and she’s okay with all of them. Every dark deed I’ve done to protect my family, my friends, my country. Every time I’ve had to play hardball. Every boundary I’ve had to set and enforce.
She tilts her head, gaze searching my face.
“You’re still beating yourself up, aren’t you?” Again, her words are gentle, coaxing. But that soft smile turns pensive. “You know one of the things I find most intriguing about you?”
I shake my head, endlessly curious about everything she thinks.
“You’re comfortable being uncomfortable. Whether it’s in a tuxedo where you’re trying not to tug on your bow tie or in a room full of silver-spooned assholes who think everyone else is beneath them. You are so used to being uncomfortable you were willing to sleep on the floor a week ago. You’re so used to being uncomfortable you just constantly live in that state of being. I admired that about you for a long time. So many people are afraid of a little pain, a little friction, but not you.”
“Why do I feel like there’s a but in there?”
“But. . . will you ever let yourself be comfortable? If not happy, content? Will you let yourself fall in love?”
21
KATHERINE
Before Alex can answer my question, the plane phone rings. Am I imagining the resignation in his eyes as he reaches for it? I hold my breath so I don’t scream.
My questions hang in the air between us.
Will you ever let yourself be comfortable?
Will you let yourself fall in love?
“Hunt,” he says, gaze dropping to my lips.
Can he read the frustration in me? Does he feel the tension taking over my limbs?
Of course he can. This is Alex.
He cups my cheek, swiping his thumb over my lips. Holds it there, a silent order.
“We’re ready. Thank you.” He puts the phone back in the cradle. “Time to buckle up.”
Oh.