Beard Necessities (Winston Brothers, #7)(65)
I felt selfish. I should’ve offered to go down on him too. I should’ve—
“Okay. You can look now.”
Waiting another few seconds, mostly to get a hold of myself, I let the shirt drop a little and peeked at him. I’d expected him to be standing in front of me, doing something sexy and confident. Billy was sexy and confident—because he was always sexy and confident—but neither his confidence nor his sexiness were pointed in my direction. He wasn’t even looking at me.
Walking around the picnic site, he gathered the hastily discarded plates left by his family, stacking them, folding blankets, putting away food, like we hadn’t just attacked each other moments ago. Like life had moved on.
I tried to figure out how to feel about his unperturbed, focused demeanor, concentrating on tasks. Meanwhile, I was a flustered ruffle of horse feathers (Yes, I know horses don’t have feathers. That’s the point.)
His gaze flickered to me as he continued to work. “Is there something wrong with the shirt?”
“No,” I said weakly, making a face that probably looked like my nose itched.
He sat back on his heels—still shirtless and glorious and sexy and confident and mesmerizing—and studied me. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s just”—I lifted my hand toward him—“you’re acting like everything is normal, like this kind of thing happens every day, and I-I feel like everything is not normal.”
“Not normal.”
How could I describe this to him? How did I explain how shaken I felt? The enormity of my happiness and fear—happy because we’d finally taken the first step over that line, fearful because I worried something would happen and we’d never do it again, or he wouldn’t want to do it again, or he wouldn’t want to do it with me. Which, yes, given our shared history, might’ve seemed like an unfounded worry. But, there it was.
If anyone knows how to stop worrying about stupid shit, please give me a call.
He stood and walked slowly to me, apprehension in his eyes. “Do you . . . do you regret what happened?”
“NO!” I shook my head frantically, adding on a rush, “Only that it didn’t happen sooner. But, Billy, everything is—feels—different now. New. Changed. I need you to talk to me about what’s going on in your head and heart. I love you.” I blurted this last part, wincing slightly as soon as the words were out of my mouth.
At my confession, Billy’s features softened, his smile was small but warm, pleased.
I wasn’t finished. I’d said this much, might as well say it all. “I love you,” I repeated, my voice croaky and raw. “I want us to be together, but I don’t want to rush you. I know you want to take things slow, and I respect that. You have many responsibilities to so many people. I guess I want to know what happens after Italy. This feels like a dream, not real life. I want us to be together in real life, and I want to know what that looks like. For you. If you want it too.”
The persistent happy little smile on his lips and behind his eyes eased some of my anxiety. So much so, I found myself smiling too. He seemed to regard me and my words, debating them silently, absorbing all their possible meanings. This was something about him I discovered whenever we spent a significant amount of time in each other’s company. When he was slow to speak, it was because he was being thoughtful with my words and his.
Taking one of my hands, he brought it to his—still shirtless—chest, over his heart, and pressed it there. “Make no mistake, what just happened between us was momentous for me. My life and heart have been forever transformed. You are the architect and artist of my own personal paradise. Now, when I close my eyes, I won’t need to imagine what heaven feels like. I’ll know.”
Oh.
If I’d been the swooning sort, I would’ve swooned. In fact, you know what? I still might.
“But Scarlet,” he said my name reverently, gently, like it was a prayer he repeated often, “I didn’t need to see or touch or taste paradise to know how deeply and irrevocably I am in love with you. That hasn’t changed. That is as constant as my soul, which has been, and will always be, forever yours.”
“Goodness,” I breathed more than said the word, feeling dizzy, lost in the labyrinth of his perfect words.
He stepped closer and carefully tucked strands of loose hair behind my ear like they were made of gold, his eyes watching the slow progress of his fingers. “I want to be with you, now and in real life. And our real life is ours to define, no one else’s.” His tone was gentle, but held a note of defiance.
Like he dared anyone to tell us how to live our life together.
Like he dared me to disagree.
Chapter Fifteen
Claire
“I'm not upset that you lied to me, I'm upset that from now on I can't believe you.”
Friedrich Nietzsche
Billy carried the heavy basket. I carried the blanket. He told me to leave everything else because he wanted to hold my hand on the way back.
I mean, how could I argue with that?
The fun started as soon as we walked in through the terrace door leading to the kitchen. Everyone was there, and I do mean everyone. All his siblings, their significant others, the Sheriff, Mrs. James, even little Liam. The room fell into a hush as soon as we entered. I could only imagine how it looked: a bare-chested Billy, me in his shirt, us holding hands, my hair a mess, my lips swollen, him sporting at least two hickeys. At least I’d put my sandals back on my feet.