The Magnolia Chronicles: Adventures in Modern Dating(64)

I ran my hands down my sides, over the thin fabric of my dress. It was a subtle choice, this plum-y purple sheath overlaid with superfine lace and tulle. It wasn't impressive on the hanger but it transformed into something magical on my body. I looked like I was intended to wear beautiful things, like this was my everyday style. And when I gazed at myself in the mirror, I believed it. I believed that I belonged at a black tie engagement party at one of the swankiest ballrooms in the city. I believed I belonged on this man's arm.

More than that, I wanted to be the one on his arm.

"Then you're worried about seeing Miranda—"

"Nope," he shouted. "I don't give a fuck about her anymore. I realized I never loved her. Not really. I thought I did but no. No, that wasn't love. I turned that stone over"—he glanced down at his hand, wiggled his fingers like he was counting, then shook his head—"I don't know. Couple of days ago."

When I reached the far end of the island, I grabbed the half-empty bottle of bourbon and carried it to the bar cart in the living room. Inspected the pillow nest for signs of destruction and happily found none. "That's quite the development," I said, turning back to him.

"You know," he started, wagging a finger at me, "you're right. However, that's not the point."

I stared at him across the island. "And what is the point?"

"That I realized I love you," he said.

I barked out a laugh. "You're drunk, Rob."

"I still love you." His words came without strain or effort as if it cost him nothing to say them. "I do love you. I have since…you know, Magnolia, I think I loved you from the minute you wouldn't let me get my way. Just didn't let myself see it. Or something like that."

"Someone has to keep you in line," I muttered.

That's right, Magnolia. Dodge. Deflect. Do anything but focus on what he's saying.

I rolled my eyes at myself.

"You want to know how I realized this?" he asked.

I bobbed my head, eager for some explanation. "Please."

He glanced up at the ceiling, blinked at the exposed ductwork. Then, "I got back to my hotel room after being in meetings all day and then dinner with the same damn people I spent the day with. I flopped on the bed and I thought about you." He cleared his throat, shot a quick glance at me. His hazel eyes brightened, shedding the fog of liquor. "I thought about traveling with you. I wondered whether you'd been to San Francisco and which neighborhoods you'd like. Going places and—and being with you. I thought about that and I jerked off a couple of times while I did it—"

"A couple of times?" I interrupted. I knew he had some—ahem—staying power but Satan save us.

"Maybe three? Four? I don't know. It'd been a long day." He shot a shoulder up, let it fall.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Mr. Nine Inches and his amazingly short refractory period.

"Like I said, you're a babe. You give me plenty to work with." When I only blinked at him, he continued, "And as I was falling asleep—"

"I hope you tipped the housekeeping staff generously," I murmured.

"I always do," he replied. "As I was falling asleep, I realized I never once worried about you and the firefighter. You and anyone. I trust you, and I'm done holding Miranda's bullshit against you and…and I love you. I love you and I never loved her and this engagement party is making me fuckin' crazy because I can't believe it took me this long to see it. To know I was going through the motions, settling for someone because she was there and seemed…I don't know. Good enough." He grinned at me and the space between us seemed to dissolve. "I realized it because you've given me more than good enough and you make me give more than that too. You make me show up. You make me work for it."

I flattened my hands on the stone countertop, needing that solid surface to keep me anchored here. To keep me from allowing those words to wrap me up and warm me to the bone. To keep me from wanting to hear them again, wanting to take them and tuck them into a secret space where nothing would ever steal them from me. To keep me from believing that I deserved love—hot, sloppy, unflagging, imperfect love. That I had it, right here in a heart-stopping tuxedo.

All I had to do was accept it…and give it back.

"Say something," Rob urged. "Anything."

"You're drunk," I repeated, shooting a glance over his shoulder at the microwave clock. "You're drunk and we're going to be late."

His lips pulled up in an easy grin as his eyelids drooped shut. He smiled, shook his head. His chin scruff rasped against his collar. Without thought, I leaned toward him, wanting to be closer to that sound. That sensation. "Not the response I was expecting but I'll take it."

"What were you expecting?"

"Not an update on my inebriation." Rob opened his eyes, rubbed the back of his neck. I wanted to stop him, bat his hand away, do it for him. Ease his tension. Ease everything.

So, I did.

I took a final step toward him and reached for the back of his neck with both hands. My fingers slipped beneath his starched collar, meeting warm skin. The scent of bourbon and Kiehl's olive fruit shampoo lingered on him. I leaned in, inhaled, brushed my lips over his jaw. He swayed toward me, a soft growl sounding in his throat as my thumbs kneaded his knots.