Page 38 of Broken Play (The O’Ryan Family #1)

THIRTY-EIGHT

SUTTON

Tracing his wrist, I pause on a ridge—a scar.

It feels old and deep and out of place on someone so strong and athletic.

It stops me cold, and I raise my head a pinch to see it.

I turn his hand. It's a tattoo that I've seen but never felt before.

It swirls and curves, like a fancy coloring book, around his wrist like a bracelet.

I look into his eyes for some sort of sign that this isn't what I think it is.

How else could he get a scar on his wrist unless.

..unless he wanted to leave everyone and everything behind?

He strokes my back, soothing me. Keeping his eyes on me, he doesn't offer an explanation.

Instead of asking him about it, I kiss his chest, his neck, and then land on his lips.

The kiss is tentative.

I swallow, suddenly aware that Greyson O'Ryan is real, human, with flaws just like the rest of us. When I open my mouth, words flow from my heart that I didn't intend to speak. "Your scars are your strength. Your brokenness is your beauty. And when you're ready, I'm here to listen."

He runs his fingers through my hair, and my mind wanders to loving him. If I do, will I lose him to an invisible opponent, a silent killer?

Tangled in his limbs, I uncoil my body from his and sneak out of bed to make him breakfast. I pad downstairs in his green and gold Austin Armadillos T-shirt.

It's so much comfier than that Denver shirt.

I open the fridge and find strawberries, eggs, and bacon.

As I'm whipping the eggs, he sneaks up behind me, kissing below my ear.

"After I do some physical therapy, do you want to go somewhere with me?"

"Depends."

"I bought a couple more horses. I need to pick them up in Whirlwind, Texas. If Paulina isn't busy with school, she should come too. It would be good for her to be out of the city. Kids should play in fields, explore nature, ride horses, and hunt for treasure."

He wants to take Paulina.

I didn't see that coming. It hits me—he's building walls where I only wanted a bridge. I told him about Bodhi, laid myself bare. But his scar? He won't touch that pain, as though sharing it might hurt more than the story itself.

The wooden spoon winds through the eggs, my mind wandering, and my words trail off. "She'll be done by lunchtime. Does that work?"

He smiles, winking with those full lashes. "Depends."

I swat him with a tea towel. He puts his arms up in self-defense and quickly lifts me off my feet. Spoon still in hand, I wrap my arms around him and tap his hard ass with the wooden utensil. "What do your conditions depend on? "

"That you let me please you. I need a taste of my sexy woman."

"But I'm making breakfast."

"You're the only nutrition I need."

As I lock my ankles around his waist, he reaches for the skillet, removes it from the heat, and turns off the burner.

"If I denied you the nutrients you need to make you the best football player, I wouldn't be a good boss."

"Or girlfriend."

Girlfriend. I love that effing word. Since we're dating in secret, there hasn't been a need for labels. We're wrapped in secrecy and a love that can only exist in stolen moments, and we're stealing one now.

He winds down the hall to his cozy office and sets me on the edge of his desk, pulling my hips closer to his mouth.

After a top-notch oral assault, I'm left boneless and sated. He climbs up my body, sucking small pieces of my skin until he reaches my mouth. I waste no time snaking my tongue into his mouth, unable to get enough of Number Ten.

When my lips are so swollen they begin to feel bruised, I tilt my head back as he nibbles on my neck. Breathless, I ask, "Will you get tired of me? You know... when the new wears off or when we finally don't have to hide?"

"I can't imagine that happening," he answers without so much as a flicker of doubt.

I nod, yet unease still runs through my veins. Can I be with a man who doesn't trust me enough to tell me where he got a scar?

Just as I'm about to confront him, his doorbell rings. "Oh, crap."

"It's fine. Just stay in here. I'll get rid of whoever it is. I need to leave for physical therapy. Promise you'll be back at noon with Paulina." He presses his lips against mine. "Wear a bathing suit underneath your clothes, and put on hiking boots."

"You think I have hiking boots?"

His lips form a flat line. "Okay, tennis shoes."

There's a half bath in the hallway. I hear him swishing his mouth out and padding to the front door.

No one comes inside for about fifteen minutes, so I sneak around gathering my stuff together, then leave through the basement door.

It's a pretty good walk to his barn, but I finally get into my car and head to my house, deep in thought about my relationship with Greyson.

It dawns on me: I haven't returned the sentiment, and maybe that's why he's keeping the details of what happened to him.

The truth is, love isn't measured by a scar or secrets—it's tested by whether you're willing to show up for the other person, even barefoot and in borrowed shirts. It's whether you trust the worst of you with the person who sees the best in you.