Page 62 of Bronson

I feel more naked than I had when I first stood before him undressed.

His fingertip touches beneath my chin. He forces my gaze up to meet his. His eyes are dark, worried. “Me too.”

“You’ve never… been in love?” I ask. How can that be? He is perfect. Beautiful to look at. Strong. Wealthy. And older than me. How has he not yet found love?

He gives a small shrug. He answers simply, “I hadn’t met you.”

My heart feels as if it’s melting into a puddle in my chest. I put my hands behind his head, pulling his face to mine. I kiss him.

The kiss feels as if it’s fated, signing us over to one another.

I am his.

He is mine.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Bronson

When I wake, she’s gone.

I look around the room, searching for any evidence of her. A forgotten article of clothing. A note?

My gaze stops when it reaches the nightstand beside me.

On it sits my little brass clock. The one she stole from my desk, months prior.

She’s returned it to me.

A smile stretches across my face. I reach my arms up over my head, pulling my muscles taut.

I feel satiated. Full. Comfortable. Content, even.

A strange twinge flits through my chest.

I miss her. Terribly.

I lay my face in her pillow, inhaling her scent. Vanilla, and roses, and just Paige.

I feel like a young man in love must. Suddenly, all those silly songs, movies seem to make sense, all at once.

How soon is too soon to call, the morning after?

I sit straight up like a bolt in my bed.

I’m not one of those men in the movies or the songs. I am a Bachman. And my life is not a simple romantic comedy.

I call when I want to.

How the hell did she get out of here without waking me? And where is she now? There is no way she could get past the gate without my thumbprint.

I rub at my forehead, trying to solve the mystery. Grabbing my phone from the tabletop, I punch in her number.

She answers on the first ring. Good girl.

“Hey, you.” Her voice is flowery, floaty. She is happy. She sounds like I feel.

“Good morning. Sleep well?” I ask.