Page 64 of Miss Behaved
“Can’t we just stay here?” Monica says with a sigh.
I reach over and grab her hand, pulling it into my lap. How I’ve gone ten years without the touch of her skin or the sound of her voice, I no longer know. I tug her toward me, and she slides over and lays her head against my shoulder, her curls falling around my neck. She wraps her other hand over mine, and I hold her.
“How does this end?” she asks me.
“I don’t know,” I say.
And it’s the god-awful truth. Because as much as we both want to sit in this spot and freeze time, we can’t stay in place. Tomorrow, the clock will be ticking once again, and both our lives are on the other side, waiting for us to fall back into a rhythm.
We can’t let go, and we can’t hold on.
I’d like to walk out into the desert and scream into it for a while. See if that could make sense of the mess I’ve made. If I hadn’t walked away ten years ago. If I’d apologized sooner. If I’d built a life with her and not apart from her.
This would all be so much easier.
But my life was my rage room, and I made a giant fucking mess.
26
Monica
“I’mnotreadytogo home,” I grumble. Light peeks through the curtains, telling me it’s already morning.
Carson slips his hands around my waist and pulls my back against his hard chest. His lips find the sensitive spot at the base of my neck, and he plants a soft kiss.
Sleeping in his arms put me into the deepest sleep. I didn’t dream, just floated in contentment. If I could spin back the hands on the clock, I would have spent every night at the retreat like this.
Although chances are I might have missed a lot more presentations if I had.
“When’s your flight?” he asks.
The simple reminder of the inevitable countdown makes my chest ache.
“One-thirty. Yours?”
“Ten-fifteen.”
That bee sting feeling on my heart flares up again. “Just a couple hours then?”
I feel his head nod from the soft scrape of his stubble against my bare shoulder. Carson wraps tighter, but even my skin feels in the way. My body wants to melt into his and be lost. To be led astray in the smell of his cologne on my sheets. The scent of the forest after it rains. Damp, fresh, full of life.
Spinning onto my side to face Carson, I decide this is my favorite look on him, half-asleep and messy. Three or more days of unshaved scruff on his jaw and eyes as bright as a blue sky on a clear morning.
He lays his palm flat on my stomach, but even the pressure of it can’t hold the weightlessness in my stomach in place.
“How are you feeling about the book series?” he asks, planting a sprinkle of kisses on my shoulder. His voice is full of genuine curiosity, stirring up all sorts of feelings.
I’m not used to dating someone who cares about my work—most people don’t take it seriously. The occasional boyfriend has even called writing books a hobby.
I nudge my hip at Carson and drop my gaze to the sheet, which is barely covering the lower edge of his hips.
“I feel a lot better now.” I smile.
He gives me a grin I wish I could frame and take home. “Glad I could inspire you.”
“Oh, I’m definitely feeling inspired.”
He traces a hand over my jaw and then runs it along my puffy bottom lip. I reach my tongue out and skim the pad of his thumb.
