Page 247 of Playing With Fire

I stare at our joined hands. “And what about us?”

His thumb stops moving. “What about us?”

“Are we supposed to be worried about everybody else before we even know what this is?”

He looks at me for a long moment.

Then he drags a hand through his hair. “That's not what I'm saying.”

“Then what are you saying?”

“I don't fucking know, Becks.”

The words aren't sharp. If anything, he sounds frustrated with himself.

He looks toward the windows, then back at me. “I know what I want. I just haven't figured out what to do with it yet.”

My chest aches. Because I want to believe he means me. But there's a difference between wanting someone and knowing how to keep them.

And I'm not sure Bishop understands how much that difference matters.

I pull my hand back gently. “I don't need you to have all the answers.”

He watches me.

“But I need to know I'm not the only one asking the questions.”

He nods slowly. “Fair.”

Neither of us speaks for a moment.

Then Bishop reaches for my hand again.

I let him take it.

“I'm not asking you to pretend last night didn't happen,” he says.

“Good. Because I'm not sure I could.”

A faint smile touches his mouth. “Me neither.”

He lifts my hand and kisses my knuckles. It's sweet, yet somehow, not quite enough to settle the butterflies swarming with uncertainty in my stomach.

By the time I head upstairs to shower, Bishop has cleared the breakfast dishes and gone into his room to return a call.

He kissed me before I left the kitchen.

A real kiss.

One that made me forget what I was going upstairs to do.

And for a few seconds, everything felt easy again. But now I'm standing in my bedroom, looking at the clothes scattered across my bed, trying to decide whether I'm supposed to feel happy or terrified.

Maybe both.

My phone buzzes—a text from Avery.

Avery: Please tell me you're alive. And that you tripped over that spectacular dress and fell into that man’s bed.