Page 71 of Not on the Same Page

“Anyway, the library was where I’d go when I needed to get away. My mom—” She almost chokes on the word, cutting herself off. With a rapid shake of her head, she tries again. “She used to take me when I was little. Before she was arrested.”

Trina goes quiet except for the tapping of her fingers against the book cover. She lifts her gaze slowly to meet mine, and there’s a question in her gorgeous eyes. She’s worried what I’m going to say about all of this.

Keeping my tone as steady as I can, I ask, “Where is your mom now?”

She lifts her slender shoulders again, defeated. She turns her attention to something in the area of her kitchen. “We haven’t talked in a long time.”

“How do you feel about that?”

Her attention snaps back to me. She studies me for a long moment, and I let her. I want her to see that she can’t scare me away. Quite the opposite—she’s given me a little taste of her life, and I want more.

“I don’t want to talk about that.” She drops her gaze to my lips, then drags it back up the planes of my face. “But if I were a gambling woman, I’d bet you came here to talk about something else?”

The only sign of surprise I give her is a quick succession of blinks, but she doesn’t miss it. Her pink lips pull upward into a self-satisfied smirk. She’s changing the subject by turning the tables, and while I know there’s probably much more to this story, it’s clear she doesn’t want to tell it yet. That’s okay, I’m a patient man.

But this is exactly what I came here for—to tell her how I feel. I would be a fool to ignore the opening.

“What gave it away?” I ask, stalling.

“The book.” She flattens her palm against it as if to ground herself. “The thoughtfulness of it.” A little laugh escapes her. “The fact that you didn’t jump me the minute you walked in the room. I look hot.”

“You do,” I say without thinking, soaking in the way her cheeks grow rosy with the compliment.

“You’ll take whatever I’ll give you,” she repeats what I told her weeks ago, growing serious.

“I will.”

“You want more.”

“If you do.”

“We’re not on the same page anymore,” she whispers.

I scoot closer to her and cup her face with my hands. “I want to be.”

Trina’s chest heaves with a deep breath that she lets out slowly, but she doesn’t break eye contact with me. It’s almost as if she’s forcing herself not to look away.

“I’m a little bit broken, Casey,” she insists. “You don’t know the half of it.”

“Aren’t we all?” I counter. “Look, you don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to, but Trina…I can’t stop thinking about you. When I’m with you, when I’m not with you, it doesn’t matter. All I’m asking is that you put me out of my misery either way—if you’re not feeling this, then tell me now and I’ll go away. But if you are…” I trail off helplessly.

“My job is all I have,” she protests weakly. “I’d be lost without it.”

Given what she just told me, I have a strong suspicion her concerns about her job are a front. “In an industry rife with nepotism and favoritism, I think us trying out a relationship isn’t high on anyone’s priority list, including Suzanna. Are you really worried about that?”

She pauses for a moment, her eyes sparkling as they bounce back and forth between mine. Then, she gives a quick shake of her head.

“Let me in, Trina,” I beg. “Let me care for you.”

The silence that stretches between us goes on for so long that it’s almost unbearable. This is what writers and editors call a pregnant pause—one so full of suspense that I feel like I might burst waiting for her answer. I don’t think I fully understood the term before now, as I’m trying so hard to give her the space to choose.

But she doesn’t say anything. Instead, she places the book next to her on the sofa and brings her hands up to cup my face, mirroring me. She slides one leg over my lap and settles her hips on top of mine.

And then, finally, our lips meet.

My whole body exhales as she folds herself into me, teasing the seam of my lips with her tongue. I open for her, capturing her moan and taking it for myself. I don’t think I’ll ever tire of these little sounds she makes. I want to bottle them up and keep them for later.

My palms slide against the fabric of her tank top on their way to her hips. Unable to help myself, I squeeze her flesh, aligning her center with my growing hardness. She gasps, arching so her breasts graze against my chest. I slide my fingertips lower, dragging them over her bare thighs and back up under the hem of her shorts.