I felt a rush of air leave Jamie’s body. His fingers on my neck squeezed, and I could read in his eyes what he was wanting to say, that I was crazy for thinking he could hurt me. That he ever would. But he didn’t say those words.

He slanted his head, leaned in, and pressed his lips against mine, murmuring three words inside our kiss.

“Get us there.”

And I knew he was talking about me telling him all of my truths while moving us further along to our catching-up point.

But I also knew that was Jamie’s way of promising me he’d be participating in that. Fully participating.

Dream Jamie was amazing but he had nothing on the real thing. Absolutely nothing.

I slid my hand to his cheek and kissed him back, soft and slow, then I shifted in his lap so I was turned sideways again, both of my legs thrown over his and my head ducking underneath his chin. “Can you sleep?” I asked. “What time is it?”

He inhaled deeply, curling his arms around me tighter. “Late,” he said. “I didn’t get here ’til after eleven.”

“Are you tired?”

I felt the shake of his head against mine. “Gonna stay up awhile. I’m sure your parents are gonna wanna know who the fuck I am. Guy they don’t know holding their daughter …”

“Oh, they know who you are,” I told him. “I had to explain that group text I sent out the other night. Both of them got it.”

Jamie’s chest rumbled with a laugh.

“Probably seemed strange,” he said.

“Nah.” I smiled, hiding my face so he couldn’t see. “I mean, my dad didn’t have much opinion about it, except that he wasn’t too happy getting a text like that. That was understandable, though. He doesn’t think anybody’s good enough for me, but my mom got it. She understood the importance of claiming a man in the name of love. Women just get that stuff.”

Jamie’s arms around me tensed. I smiled bigger, flattening my hand to his chest.

“Night,” I whispered.

His head shook against the top of mine. “Always dropping shit like that and then passing out on me,” he murmured, and I could hear he was smiling, too. “What the fuck, Legs?”

“Shh.” I snuggled closer.

He grunted deep in his throat.

After that, I fell asleep and slept soundly in Jamie’s arms, only waking hours later when my father woke up and made that fact known to the entire room.

“I suggest you take your hands off my daughter before you lose ’em both,” he ordered, voice threatening and louder than I’d ever heard. “I might look bedridden, son, but I assure you, I am not.”

Introductions were a little tense after that, needless to say. But once I informed my father of Jamie’s apparent love for firearms, something I found out when I was snooping around his house after our lovemaking by the fire—he had a gun cabinet in his office among the trophies—it was as if Dad hadn’t caught Jamie passed out with his hand clutching my ass.

They got to talking about hunting and gun ranges and forgot my mother and I even existed, which was fine since we were busy whispering about the McCade family genes and how incredible their bone structure was.

Chapter Twenty

JAMIE

Five days later

“Legs!” I hollered, kicking the front door closed and tossing my keys on the entryway table.

I fished the piece of paper out of my back pocket and was already crossing the living room and searching for Tori when she called out from the kitchen.

“In here! I’m …” She paused, eyes lifting from the bowl she was stirring when I entered the room. “Oh, hey.” She smiled, red lips stretching wide. “I’m just getting these potatoes coated and ready to roast in the oven. Then I’ll cut out the biscuits. Give me fifteen. We’ll be ready to eat.”

She went back to stirring.

Tori was cooking us dinner, something she hadn’t done yet but felt was long overdue, this feeling coming over her last night while we were shacked up on the couch, watching TV and scarfing down the half-everything, half-just-pepperoni pizza I’d brought over.

Nearly finished with her second slice of pepperoni, she set her plate down on the coffee table and turned to look at me, stating, “I’m making you a home-cooked meal tomorrow. So don’t be coming over with food. I got it covered.”

Reading the look on her face as this being something important to her, that it was gonna mean something when she gave it and wanting her to tell me that, I’d asked why.

I was a fucking moron thinking she’d tell me the real reason.

Tori shrugged, picked up her pizza, took a bite, and answered around her mouthful, “Eating in is cheaper and better for you. I’m getting a belly.”

She wasn’t getting a belly. The little bulge she showed me after I called her out on it wasn’t no fucking belly either, and truth be told, even if it was, I’d still be hard up. Tori could have a belly and two fantastic asses and I’d be wanting her nonstop like I was doing now. I told her that, too.

That led to us eating cold pizza and missing the rest of the Yankees game. Except I didn’t miss nothing. Neither did she.

Now here she was, cooking something that smelled delicious. Any other night, I’d want to let her continue but not right now.

“That shit can wait,” I told her, stepping up to the island and standing across from where she was working.

Tori stopped stirring, lifted her head, and narrowed her eyes on me. I started smiling. She had a dusting of flour on her cheek, a swipe on her forehead, and even more covering the apron she was wearing. Plus, she looked pissed, and Legs looking pissed dressed as Betty Crocker while looking like a fucking beauty queen was hard not to smile at.

“I have never in my life made biscuits that were shit, Jamie,” Tori shared, heavy on the attitude. “I follow my late nana’s recipe each and every time. The day I start making shit biscuits is the day I move out of the South.”

“Babe,” I started, but she kept right on going and cut me off.

“And no, shit or not, they can’t wait. None of what I’m doing can wait.” She gestured at the stove behind me with her hand not curled around the spoon. “I got everything timed perfectly with the pork chops, except the green beans, which have been cooking all day. They’re ready whenever. But the rest? I mean, seriously. Do you want to eat cold meat and warm sides, because I sure don’t.”

Not waiting for an answer, Tori went back to stirring again, doing it more vigorously now and causing her overgrown bangs to fall into her eyes. The rest of her hair was pulled back into a ponytail, looked messy, and had flour sprinkled throughout it.

I slapped the paper I was holding down on the counter, rephrasing and repeating, “Legs, trust me, it can fuckin’ wait.”

Tori’s hand stopped moving again. She shook her head to clear her hair from her eyes, then leaned over to look at the paper I was keeping flat. By the time her eyes reached mine, they’d gone soft. “Is that …” Her voice, free of attitude now, trailed off when I jerked my chin.

She pulled her lips between her teeth, released the spoon, and slid the bowl aside. Then she wiped her hands off on her apron and padded quickly to the fridge, where she pulled down a paper secured by magnets. Tori came around the counter to stand beside me and laid her paper next to mine.