Page 28 of Not a Strong Enough Word

I don’t hesitate. “Yes.”

“I wish I had your confidence.”

“You just need a little help. You’re overwhelmed. Take it one thing at a time.”

She seems to think for a moment, then nods as her blue eyes meet mine again. “What’s first?”

“Tacos,” I say. “Then a bath.”

“I am hungry. And dirty.” There’s that little smile again. A squeezing sensation in my chest accompanies it.

I stand and offer her my hand to help her up. She takes it, and though she’s a little shaky on her feet, she interlaces our fingers and squeezes, looking up at me with those devastating eyes.

“Thank you,” she whispers.

Without thinking, I lean in to kiss her forehead. When I realize what I’ve done, I pull back, afraid she’s going to get skittish and order me to leave. But the smile she flashes up at me is wide and genuine and heartbreakingly gorgeous.

I never thought I’d see that smile again, but now that I have, there’s no way I can let her walk out of my life a second time.

Chapter 14

Ryan

Seven Years Ago

“Tacos?” Scarlett arches a dark eyebrow in my direction. She glances warily at the hole-in-the-wall restaurant in front of us. “I know we’ve been seeing each other for a few months now, but I was hoping you’d try to impress me for a little while longer.”

I put a hand over my heart in mock offense. “How dare you. Tacos are the perfect food.”

She purses her lips skeptically. “Perfect is a pretty strong word for what is essentially a sandwich.”

“Take it back this instant,” I tease. “A measly sandwich has nothing on a taco. There are so many options! Crispy or soft, any meat or vegetarian filling you want, beans, cheese, salsas, guacamole, sour cream. Should I go on?”

“Sour cream is disgusting,” she counters.

I tip my head back and forth, thinking. “I’ll give you that one.”

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think I should be jealous of your relationship with this particular food item,” she says sardonically.

“You joke, but I take my tacos very seriously.”

“I can see that.”

Stepping forward, I hold the door open for her and motion for her to go inside. “Reserve your judgment until you try them, okay? At the very least, they’ll be easy to take where we’re going.”

As she passes me inside, her shoulder brushes mine. I have to fight against the urge to grab her and pin her against the wall with a searing kiss. She’s so strikingly beautiful, with her dark hair hanging long down her back, the silky strands tempting me to run my fingers through them. Of course, she’s wearing my favorite color on her, too—a royal-purple tank top that brightens the hue of her eyes and dark wash jeans. As her hips sway on her way into the restaurant, I know she’s intentionally made herself hard to resist.

Three months with this woman, and every day I feel like I’ve hit the jackpot.

“We’re not staying here?” she asks over her shoulder. “Where are we going?”

“I thought we could take our food to a park nearby. Set up a picnic. Maybe read a little.” I shrug like it’s no big deal, but I surreptitiously rub my sweaty palms against my jeans.

Scarlett joked about me trying to impress her, but every date I’ve planned so far has been carefully crafted around something I think she might like. She’s not the type to enjoy large crowds or loud spaces—I gathered that from the night we met. Most of the time she spends on her own has something to do with her writing, whether she’s drafting or editing or working with her critique partners. JMP has her slated for a small press tour with the possibility of expanding it when her book releases, so some of her time has been spent shopping for outfits with her roommates. I know she’s nervous about all of that, but she doesn’t have anything to be worried about. Her book is fantastic, and even though she describes herself as painfully introverted, she lights up a room when she’s talking about her work.

So far, when I’ve planned dates for us, I’ve been careful to avoid things she doesn’t enjoy but even more attentive about what she likes. Just the other day, she was bemoaning the fact that since she signed her deal, she doesn’t have any time to read. I grabbed the book that has been sitting on her nightstand for weeks, hoping she wouldn’t miss it if it was gone for a few days, and planned this afternoon for her to unwind.

Scarlett turns to face me, pouting. “You should have told me. I don’t have my book.”