Page 40

FORTY

LENNON

I haven’t moved since Saint disappeared into my bathroom, rooted into place on the edge of the mattress, trying to let everything that I’d just learned sink in.

I’m not sure I’m even fully breathing right now.

There’s a physical ache in my chest beneath my rib cage, and I reach up, rubbing at the spot as if it’s going to take that pain away.

It’s nothing, not even in the same realm of the pain and heartache that Saint’s experienced, and that… guts me.

I’m struggling to keep the tears at bay when I replay his words in my head. He’s been struggling in silence for so long, bearing the weight of this with no one to hold him.

But that ends here. Because I’m going to be the one who is strong for him when he feels like he has no one else. In whatever capacity that is, whatever label it needs to hold.

It doesn’t even truly matter because I’m going to be here, no matter what.

The bathroom door swings open, and steam billows around Saint as he steps out clad in nothing but one of my pink gingham, laced towels.

Shit. I completely forgot to get up and put his clothes in the dryer.

But also… him wearing that pink towel that’s comically small compared to his massive, broad frame has a giggle floating out of me. I bring my hands to my lips to cover it, but his eyes darken.

“Is this a fucking hand towel, Golden Girl? Christ.” There’s a lighter glint shining in his eyes, and it makes me feel better that maybe our talk and a shower have helped to clear his mind some.

“Nope, you’re just huge.”

Immediately, my cheeks heat when it comes across very differently than I intended, and he smirks. It still doesn’t quite meet his eyes, but it’s a start.

I spring up from my bed and rush over to him, swiping his clothes from his hands. “I’ll just, uh, put this in the dryer, and then you can change once they’re done.”

He nods, holding tightly to the towel.

I quickly get them into the dryer and then walk back into my room, finding Saint standing near the bulletin board on my wall, fingers moving over a photo of Maisie and me from last year.

It was from the winter formal for the Social Club. My dress was a pale blue silk that made me feel like a princess, white faux fur draped over my shoulders, pale pink earrings my parents had gifted me in my ears.

We had so much fun that day, and looking back at it, it’s a stark reminder about how much has changed. How much I’ve changed.

As much as I thought I loved the person I was then, it’s nothing compared to how proud I am of the girl I am now. Even if I’m still a work in progress.

“Winter formal for the Social Club.” I stop beside him, tilting my head slightly to look at the prop in my hand from the photo booth. “That’s my best friend, Maisie. She’s my roommate too, but she’s with her parents this weekend.”

Saint hums, his attention moving to me. “You look beautiful.”

Heat creeps up my throat at the compliment. I like it. Far too much.

“Thanks,” I say quietly, tucking a long red strand of my hair behind my ear. “I’m actually stepping down from the Social Club.”

“Why?”

“Because I hate it.” My nose scrunches at the admission.

It’s the first time I’ve said that out loud to anyone.

“I hate the responsibility, the crippling pressure, and the constant need to feel like I have to be this perfect person. I hate the frivolity of all the galas and fundraisers and the opulent show of wealth. In the grand scheme of things, I hate that it feels like all eyes are always on me, for things that don’t even really matter. “

Sighing, I glance back at the bulletin board, my gaze moving over all of the memories. Pictures, tickets, mementos. Some of them are happy memories, but mostly, all I feel is relief that I’m no longer going to have to fill the shoes that my family has stood in before me.

“Quitting is another one of those trying to take my life back things. I actually haven’t even told anyone… but you.”

It seems to be the theme of tonight, baring ourselves for the other to see.

Saint’s quiet for a moment before he speaks. “You are perfect, and if anyone makes you think any differently, then I’ll fuck them up.”

It’s serious yet ridiculous at the same time, and I giggle softly before a yawn hits me. I can’t stop it, and my hand travels to my mouth to cover it.

“I almost forgot that it’s the middle of the night.” Looking back at the clock on my nightstand, I see it’s after 3:00 am. “No wonder my eyes feel so heavy.”

“I can take the couch.”

My brow arches. “Oh? Have you suddenly become a gentleman?”

“Shut up,” he growls playfully, fingers pressing into my side. “It’s your house, Lennon. Whatever you want is what happens.”

Holding his gaze, I take a step back toward my bed, then another, and another until I drop down onto the edge. “And what I want is for you to sleep right here beside me.”

His feet stay planted into the floor as he stares back at me, hesitation flickering in the depths of his eyes.

My eyebrow lifts. “You can stay on your side, and I’ll stay on mine. Since we’re so good at that.” The words are playful, unfalteringly confident in a way that only comes from the shift that seems to have happened between us tonight.

Saint cares about me as much as I care about him, and him showing up, him trusting me, after everything he went through today proves that.

I move towards the headboard and slip beneath the covers when he finally, finally moves toward me, still wearing nothing but a towel that barely covers him.

I one hundred percent realize that I am quite literally inviting temptation into my bed, and maybe that’s exactly what I want.

But I also just want to be close to him. I don’t want him to sleep alone, to deal with all of the heavy solitude anymore.

Saint crawls over the covers and slips beneath them beside me. His feet are so long that they hang out of the bottom. He’s so big that there’s barely any room left in the bed. The space between us is far smaller than I anticipated.

I switch the lamp off and then roll onto my side, staring over at him.

There’s still a hurricane happening outside, so the moon is tucked away behind thick clouds, and the only light in the room is the soft, dim glow of the night-light coming from the bathroom.

My gaze travels the sharp slope of his nose and cheekbones, pausing on his bruised eye, the pang of concern returning. His lips are full, the spot where it’s busted even more swollen, and despite having his face battered tonight, he’s still the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.

He turns to look at me, and my mouth curls into a small smile. “I like this. Having you here.”

“Me too.”

A comfortable, easy silence sits between us as we look at each other, unmoving, just breathing, drinking the other in. His shoulders slant as he angles more toward me, reaching for a lock of my hair and twirling it absentmindedly around his finger, the motion nearly lulling me to sleep.

If it wasn’t for the heat beginning to pool in my lower belly at the proximity, his lips only inches from mine, maybe I could fall asleep.

But right now, I just want him to touch me.

Lifting my hand, I wrap my fingers around his wrist and slowly drag his hand to my chest, placing it there.

I watch the column of his throat move with a rough, uneven swallow. “We’ve never been great at following the rules, have we, Golden Girl,” he murmurs, his voice dropping low.

The rule flitting through my brain has nothing to do with the lines on the ice or the side of the bed we said we’d stay on.

Never fall for the bad boy.

The rule was simple.

Easy.

Except somewhere along the way, I think I broke the one and only rule there was.

And I know now there’s no going back to the way it was before.

Before Saint Devereaux.