The Magnolia Chronicles: Adventures in Modern Dating(44)

I continued reading, grabbing key details as I went. Ritz-Carlton. Next month. Black tie optional. Registered at Bloomingdale's.

Goddamn Bloomie's.

"We're going," I announced, still staring at the card. It was thicker than most paper plates. I could eat a sandwich off this invitation and then use the envelope as a napkin.

"We're fucking what?" he snapped, his gaze meeting mine for the first time since opening the envelope.

"We're going," I repeated. "You, me, black tie optional. We are going because A, fuck her. B, fuck him. And C, they can go fuck themselves."

Rob stared at me from the other side of the island for a long, long moment. The kind of moment that made me wonder whether I'd made a terribly wrong turn. I had a habit of doing that. Making the worst choice and convincing myself to go full steam ahead even though my belly shimmered with bubbles of doubt. You name the bad decision, I'd made it. But this didn't feel like one of those times.

This felt absolutely right.

Rob rounded the island and stepped into my space, crowding me until my back hit the hard marble edge. His hands went to my face, his fingers in my hair. He held me like that, his forehead pressed to mine and his gaze all over me. Then he kissed me. It started soft, brushing sweet, gentle kisses on my lips. But then it turned wild, starved. Biting, bruising, crushing. But good. All those things, good. So good.

He boosted me up onto the counter, stepped between my legs, locked my ankles around his waist, thrust against my center, groaned when his length rocked into my heat.

"You," he said against my lips, dragging his finger from my ear along the line of my jaw, down my neck, over the jut of my breastbone. "You are dangerous."

"Why's that?" I ran my fingers through his auburn hair while my thoughts pinged between wondering whether I could rip his shirt open and send the buttons flying like I'd always wanted, and whether I was in danger of knocking over the wine if I shifted back an inch.

"You keep making me do things I don't think I want," he said. "First it was dating you. Then it was sharing you with the firefighter. Now it's showing up at that engagement party. I didn't want any of this. Not a single thing. But here I am, eating ice cream and talking myself out of hating the other guy and—and seriously thinking about seeing Eddie and Miranda at their fucking engagement party. Because of you. Because you want it and I can't help but do everything you want. I don't know why, Magnolia. Why am I doing this? Tell me, please, love. Tell me how you're putting me back together because I need to know."

I reached for his buttons. I was going to undo them one by one. No dramatic shows for me. Just step by step, sliding into the space he never wanted me—or anyone else—to occupy. Part of it felt wrong, as if I was forcing him to follow a path he didn't choose and would eventually resent.

But the other part…it was right. This was right. Rob and I, we were right. At least right now.

"I asked nicely," I replied. "I asked, and that was all it took." I reached for his belt buckle, unfastened. Drew his zipper down as his eyes went hazy. "You're welcome."

His fingers closed around my wrist, halting the zipper's descent. "If I"—he stopped himself, growled, swore under his breath—"if I want to wait, does that change everything?"

I brought my lips to his collarbone, kissed only enough to shake a shiver out of him. "Nothing at all," I replied. "And if you're not into this anymore—"

"Oh, I am fucking into this," he interrupted. "I am losing my mind with how much I'm into this. Into you." He leaned back a bit, separating me from the slope of his shoulder where he smelled like an herb garden. "But I was wrong. In the beginning, I was wrong about everything and I think—I know—I want to do this right, Magnolia. I want—"

"There was nothing wrong about the dick pic you sent me. That was all right." No, it wasn't possible for me to participate in a conversation without making it A. weird, B. sarcastic, C. filthy, or D. some ludicrous combination of weird, sarcastic, and filthy. Not possible.

His forehead crinkled, the corners of his eyes creased, and his lips parted. He didn't say anything. Instead, he studied me as if seeing me for the first time. I matched his gaze, and as the seconds slipped into minutes, it occurred to me this was the first time.

Somewhere between lunch at Flour and that engagement party invitation, we'd shed a layer or two of armor. My hair wasn't blown out and he wasn't hung up on that plan to get over his ex by getting under someone new and anonymous. And we weren't hiding our war wounds, weren't shining them up as if to say, "Look, I'm healed! I'm all right now!" because we didn't need to pretend anymore.

"Are you going to tell me what you're thinking or am I going to have to create my own explanation? I'll tell you this, my explanations are wacky. I fall off the cliffs of crazy real fast."

Rob laughed under his breath. "I'm just wondering if you're going to bring up that pic when we—" He ran his hand over his mouth, blinked, glanced away with wide eyes. "Sorry. Lost my train of thought for a second. I was just thinking how lucky I was that you didn't block me on the app."

That wasn't it. He'd meant to say something about us, about a future for us. I knew it. But I didn't intend to push him. Whatever he'd started to say would keep. If I was meant to hear it, the day would come when he'd tell me. Hopefully, when that day arrived, my belly wouldn't slosh as if it couldn't decide between butterflies and full-out seasickness at the mere suggestion of the future.