Page 79 of Dirty Roxie

“Ohmigod, don’t be a dick.” I slap him in the chest. “You’re talking about me, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

My smile joins his. “Thank you for that.”

“Will you forgive me?”

I take a deep breath before answering. It’s a tough question. One not easily answered. If I forgive him, I let him back in. Once Ronan is in, he holds the power to destroy me. Anyone with that kind of control scares the shit out of me. At the same time, it seems he’s been honest with me thus far. I owe it to him to do my best at being the same.

“How do I know you won’t do it again? Won’t wake up one day thinking you aren’t good enough for me? And then leave.”

“We don’t.”

My heart sinks. My emotions like a yo-yo.

“In the time that we were apart, my thoughts were consumed by you. I couldn’t focus on work, I didn’t sleep, had no appetite. My body a mere shell of what it was before when I was with you. I didn’t realize the depth of your impact in my life until it wasn’t there. All I wanted was to have you with me so I could show you how I feel. And now that you are, I promise to try my best to stay present, be with you, and remain deserving of your love.” He bows his head, bringing my hands to his lips, kissing them lightly.

“Who said anything about love?” I ask, regretting my question as soon as the words leave my lips. It’s obvious he missed me, but that doesn’t mean he—

“I did.”

My breath catches and my heart begins to race. I look at him, one brow raised. Wanting him to clarify, but not wanting to ask. I mean, he didn’t saythewords, but he implied. Didn’t he?

“I’m in love with you, Roxie.”

Oh god! He said the words.

“How? I mean . . . we haven’t even . . .” I stutter through my questions. “How does this even work, Ronan? You’re here in Russia, I’m halfway around the world in California—”

“That’s not really halfway, it’s more like a third, what with Russia—”

“You’re choosing now to bring up my lack of geography knowledge?” I warn.

He smiles and retakes his place next to me on the bench seat in the car. I angle my body toward him, not wanting to let him out of my sight.

“Where we live has nothing to do with how we feel.” He sounds confident when he says it.

“Of course, it does.”

“If that is true, I will move to America.”

“You would do that? For me?”

“Of course. If that were the only way to prove to you how I feel, yes. Just like you would move to Russia for me.”

“I would?” I ask the question that’s impossible for me to answer.

“You would.” He answers it as though it was never a question at all. “Do you love me?”

“I . . .” I’m afraid to answer.

Once I do, there’s no going back.

And what if I answer and I’m wrong?

Who am I to know what love is?

Would I even know it if it I saw it?