Page 159 of The Marriage Clause

My lungs forget how to work.

He built my father an apartment.

Connected to my studio.

In his house.

The man who signed a one-year contract with me built a home for my father.

I turn around slowly, the tears already filling my eyes but I don’t want to cry, I just want him to wrap me in his arms and kiss me.

He’s standing in the middle of the studio with his hands at his sides, expression open in a way that tells me he’s braced for the possibility that this is too much.

The tears are falling because there’s no way to hold this back any further. Everett always knows what I need before I ask. He anticipates every dream that I could never imagine on my own.

"You did this," I say, and my voice barely works. "You built me a studio."

"You needed space to paint."

"Everett."

"It’s just a room."

"It’s not just a room." I cross to him, stopping close enough to see the slight shift in his breathing. "You saw the painting and started construction the next day."

"The day after."

I shake my head as if one day makes no difference. "While we were still in France."

"Yes."

"While you were sleeping next to me and never said a word."

"It was supposed to be finished before we got back." His jaw tightens. "The timeline was aggressive."

I stare up at him.

This impossible, maddening, quietly devastating man who will not say I love you but will build a studio from scratch in a week because he saw a painting I made of him and decided my talent deserved a home, even though the painting hurt him deeply.

I hurt him and he built me a studio for it.

Something of your own inside my world. That’s what he said.

I reach up and take his face in both hands, his skin is warm in my hands. His jaw is tight under my palms.

"Thank you," I whisper. "For seeing me. For making a place for me when you didn’t have to. This wasn’t part of the deal."

His expression cracks. Just barely. Just enough.

His hands come to my waist.

"Sometimes plans change," he says.

And then he kisses me, his hands tightening on my waist as he kisses me back with something that isn't soft at all. Something that's been building since the shower—since my hand wrapped around him and he made himself stop, since he said trust me, we'll get back to this.

Now we are. But there's so much more between us now.

His hands slide under the hem of his T-shirt —the one I'm wearing, the one that smells like him. He pulls it over my head in one smooth motion. I'm not wearing anything underneath because this is how he said he wants me... all day. Just his shirt and bare skin.