Page 97 of When We Had Forever
“Yeah, why not? I mean, look at it. It’s seen some things. Been around the block a few times. But its color hasn’t faded, just gotten a little scratched up. And it still burns as brightly as ever. It might not be new, but it’s every bit as strong as the day it was made.”
I scoff. “I think you’re giving me too much credit.”
He plucks the lighter off the coffee table, then raises the lantern’s glass to ignite the wick. “I think you’re not giving yourself enough.”
“Maybe.” I lay out the game. “But if so, I’m not the only one.”
He squints. “Which means what, exactly?”
“I’m just saying...” I trail off. WhatamI getting at? “You burn bright. Brighter than anyone I’ve ever met, maybe.”
He gives me a long look. There’s a depth there, one begging to be explored. “You know, for years, I thought I’d destroyed myself. IknewI had, actually. I had nothing to offer anyone. But now...I don’t know. Maybe you’re right. Maybe there’s more to me than I’ve let myself believe.”
The moment stretches, tightens. Something in my chest tightens along with it.
Sex, I tell myself.Just sex.
“I’m”—I clear my throat—“going to go put on some socks.”
He smirks. The charged tension dissipates. “Socks? As in two extra pieces of clothing? You’ve already decided to cheat, I see.”
“No, it’s not that. I’m just cold.”
“Bullshit. You’re flushed.”
“It’s the wine,” I say. It’s definitely not. “Besides, you still have your jacket on. Which makes me no more of a cheater than you.”
“Fine,” he says. “Go ahead, then. I’m still going to win.”
I stick out my tongue and go to the bedroom. When I finish up and pad back to the fire, I find Grayson lying on his stomach with his chin propped on one fist. My feet break into a sweat the moment the heat touches me.
“Are you ready?” he says.
Damn. Talk about a loaded question. Unsure of what might emerge if I open my mouth, I plop down on my belly, snatch up the dice, and roll.
We play. His jacket comes off first, but after that, the tide turns. For my opening gambit, I pluck out an earring and set it on the coffee table.
“No way,” he says. “Jewelry doesn’t count.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Says who?”
“Says me.”
“Nuh-uh. You can’t just make up rules like that after we’ve started.”
His eyes narrow, but when I flutter my lashes in a show of innocence, he relents. “Fine. Butearringscount as one article, singular. And you have to answer a question, too.”
I consider. He drives a hard bargain, but I still have a trick up my sleeve. One that’ll get me much further than the jewelry. “Okay. What do you want to know?” I stack my other earring atop its twin.
“What were you writing today? At the coffee shop?”
I still. I should’ve seen that coming from a mile off. I don’t mind telling him, though. I even include the part where I submitted the article to Travelique.
As I explain, his eyes glint, growing ever warmer as the twilight from the window fades and the fire glow takes over. “Is that who you’d write for, in a perfect world?”
“Definitely. I’ve always loved their content. I don’t know if you’ve ever been on their website, but—”
“I have. I did a project for them once, actually.”
