Page 96 of Almost Enough

He presses a gentle kiss to the top of my head, so different from the man who shook me to my core. “Are you okay?”

“More than okay. That was…”

“Intense?”

“I was going to say the absolute best mind-blowing sex of my entire life, but sure, we’ll go with your boring word.”

His chest rumbles with quiet laughter before silence settles between us. Finally, I ask, “Are you staying?”

His arm tightens around me. “Try to make me leave.”

Warmth unfurls in my chest, spreading outward until I feel it in my fingertips. I hide my smile against his skin, not ready to let him see just how much those simple words affect me.

“I’m pretty persuasive when I want to be,” I tease.

“You’re something, alright.”

His fingers trail up and down my spine in a rhythm that makes my eyelids heavy. Just as I’m drifting into sleep, his voice pulls me back.

“I’m glad you asked me to the ceremony.”

I tilt my head up to look at him, finding his eyes already on me. They’re softer than I’ve ever seen them. “Yeah?”

He nods, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, his thumb lingering on my cheek. “I want to be there.”

My heart does a little somersault, followed by a cartwheel. “Who are you, and what have you done with Beau Sinclair?”

The corner of his mouth lifts enough to hint at a smirk. “Still here.”

He’s right. This is still the same Beau. Quiet, steady, maddeningly reserved. He hasn’t changed, and I wouldn’t want him to. But he’s letting me see parts of him no one else does, and it’s incredible.

I’ve never felt this at ease with someone who is so completely different from me. I’m chaos and color and a thousand words a minute. He’s stillness and shadows and silence, and that somehow says more than most people ever do. We shouldn’t work. On paper, we don’t.

But here I am, breathing his air and feeling more like myself than I have in a long, long time.

twenty-eight

. . .

Beau

Whitley’s sheets smell like her.

I’m flat on my back in her bed, one arm tucked behind my head, staring at the ceiling while she sleeps on my chest.

I’m not used to this. Being in someone else’s space. Whitley’s personality is written all over this place—bright yellow throw pillows, a half-empty coffee on the nightstand, books stacked haphazardly in the corner. It smells like lemon, vanilla, and her. It’s messy and loud and warm, just like she is.

What’s interesting is that I’m comfortable. That’s the part that gets me, because I don’t do this. I keep walls up between me and people for a reason.

Whitley barrels through space like it’s optional. And somehow, instead of needing to build a wall, I just want to open more doors. Which is stupid. Dangerous, even.

But as she lets out a quiet sigh and nestles in closer, I already know I’m in trouble, because I don’t want to leave this bed.

Her breathing is slow and steady, every soft exhale brushing against my skin. Her hair is fanned out across my chest in a wild, copper tangle, one leg thrown over mine like she owns me. Maybe she does.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand. I shift just enough to grab it, careful not to wake her. One glance at the screen, and I roll my eyes.

Rowan: