Page 100 of Reckless Love

Stephen hasn’t asked us to leave, and I can’t bring myself to consider what would need to happen for me to suggest we stop playing house.

There’s real joy in leaving work at noon each day and returning to this tiny apartment. Me of six years ago would probably be horrified. Or maybe she wouldn’t. I don’t know. It feels like I’ve spent so much of my life pretending to be versions of myself that never quite fit. Faking it. Constantly preoccupied with going against what people expected or conforming to the opinions of others that I don’t know if I ever truly considered what I wanted. I thought I knew.

Six years ago, the only thing I really wanted was a successful company. But when I look at that goal with fresh eyes, I see that I wanted it so my siblings and my parents would view me as smart and capable—the exact opposite of how they treated me. The opposite of how a lot of people in Bellerive saw me. As the youngest and most unruly, I was the weakest link in our family.

My claim that I needed a wealthy partner for my vision to work? A notion planted by my mother and then, it seems, likely executed by her too. I ruined my life for validation, and if I’d stopped to take stock of my life, I might have realized I didn’t truly need it.

It’s one thing to admit all that to myself on my drive home, but it’s quite another to say any of those truths out loud.

For the first time—maybe ever—I love my life.

There’s just the pesky reality that I’m still married to someone else. That Raul could wake up any day now and blow my heart to pieces. If there’s one thing I know, he won’t take my co-habitation with Stephen as a medical or emotional necessity. Choosing to live here, so publicly, is a betrayal. Raul doesn’t know that my betrayal—in my head, in my heart—has been there since the moment we met. Maybe I didn’t even truly know that truth until I heard Stephen’s voice in the front foyer of my house. There’s no denying it now, though.

I’m Stephen’s, and he is mine. Even if the legality of our relationship doesn’t line up yet, that’s my truth.

When I pull into the driveway of Stephen’s bungalow, I’m surprised to see his car. Normally, he’s gone until Landon’s done school, and then he picks up Landon and drives him home. A spike of irrational fear shoots through me. His car wouldn’t be here if Stephen was injured or something was seriously wrong. I press my hand to my chest as I turn the door handle. Maybe he’s just not feeling well.

Ever since he told me about the car bombing, there’s a tiny piece of me that’s constantly worried about his safety. I knew he did dangerous work, both now and when he used to be a police officer, but there were no close calls, no instances that made me afraid, and part of me considered Stephen invincible. Come what may, Stephen would always exist somewhere in the world.

But the hitch in his step, the tiny scars on his cheek tell a different, more terrifying story.

“Stephen?” I call into the house as I step out of my heels. “You’re home?”

“In the kitchen,” he calls back.

I find him putting some finishing touches on my favorite pot stickers. In jeans and a T-shirt, it’s clear he’s not working this afternoon. He passes me a plate.

“What are you doing home?”

“Took the afternoon off.” He leads the way to the kitchen table. “Have some long evenings coming up.”

I slide into the chair beside him, and I dip a finger into the sauce he’s poured on them. Then I make eye contact with him as I suck it off. “Time in the house alone… I wonder what we could do.”

His gaze is focused on my finger, and he slides his hand along my inner thigh. “I’m all yours for the afternoon. How are you feeling?”

Since honesty is the best policy, I don’t lie. “I was on my feet too long this morning, and I’m a bit sore.”

“After we eat, I’ll draw you a bath in my apartment.”

“That tub is too big for one person,” I say, taking a tiny bite of one of the pot stickers. A moan escapes my throat. “Why are these so good?”

“My momma taught me well.”

“She did,” I agree, taking another bite and then wiping the corner of my lips when the sauce sticks. “A gentleman wouldn’t make me bathe alone.”

“You think I’m a gentleman?” He raises his eyebrows, and he runs his index finger through the sticky sauce on his plate then coats my bottom lip with it. “Not my favorite thing to see on your lips, but it’ll do.” Then he swoops down, devouring me with a scorching kiss. His big hand cups the back of my neck, deepening it. I lean into him, desperate for more. My body flares to life like someone poured gasoline on warm coals. Heat pools in my stomach and then floods other areas that I’m now dying for him to touch.

“We can reheat these,” I say between kisses. “I want you in that bath.”

“I’m not actually sure that tub will fit us both,” he says while he trails a line of kisses down my neck.

“It’s literally a two-person tub.”

He takes my hand and runs it along his tall, broad body. “I’m as big as two regular-sized people.”

“If it’s too crowded, I’ll just sit in your lap.” I stand up, abandoning the food I love in favor of the man I want, and I take his hand, leading him toward his apartment.

“Not sure that’s going to help with your soreness.” He tugs me back against him, his lips on the hollow of my neck again, and one of his hands is splayed across the flat of my stomach, pressing me against him.