Chapter 57

A flash of heat coils in my lower belly. 

It’d taken me off-guard then, but now… 

I lie back on the bed, imagining what it’d feel like to be pushed into this surface. The satin sheets are certainly softer than the marble edge of the Dean’s bathroom sink. There’s more than enough room to splay my legs as wide as they’ll go – my arms too. 

I bet he’d pin them down.

Or maybe he’d just tie them up. 

And my legs. 

I’d have nowhere to go, completely at his – 

The water stops. 

I shimmy back into an upright position, hoping that none of my little self-indulgent fantasy is visible on my face. 

Or maybe he’s just not interested in any of these things. Maybe he had his fill of them long before he met me. 

That thought cools me off immediately. 

Wasn’t he trying to prove a point the night of the dance? He was angry. He wanted me to know that I was his, and now that he’s proved that point…

The bathroom door creaks open and my inner monologue dies the moment I see Adrian walk out, completely bare-chested with a towel slung around his waist. 

“The water pressure’s not suitable for my hair,” are the first words out of his mouth. “I’ll have to complain.” 

“Oh, it looks…” My tongue’s suddenly glued to the roof of my mouth. “...fine to me.” 

More than fine. 

Not only do the wet curls stick to his forehead in perfect little ringlets, but some of the excess water’s begun dripping down his torso, only further emphasizing the hard lines carved into his abdomen. 

People shouldn’t be allowed to be this pretty. 

The last time I saw him shirtless, I’d been trying very hard not to stare. 

This time, I don’t have the same reservations, so I drink in every inch of exposed skin. 

My eyes dip to the hip bones peaking out on either side of his waist, to his V-line, to the smattering of dark curls that disappear beneath the towel. 

My mouth goes dry. 

“See something you like?” 

My gaze snaps back to his face. His mouth twitches like he’s fighting the urge to smirk, and I snuff out the instinct to avert my eyes. “Maybe.” 

Definitely. 

Yes.

“Maybe?” The word’s a purr out of his mouth, and when he stalks toward, eyes glinting like onyx stones in the light, I’m not sure he’s ever looked more like a predator. “Just maybe?” It should be illegal for someone to make that word – an innocuous, harmless word – sound so sinful. 

There’s another flash of heat – or maybe it’s a jolt of heat – as he looms over me, hands on either side of my body, so that I’m caged against the bed. 

My breath quickens. 

Do I like this? 

I think I like this. 

And it’s not the first time he’s caged me in his arms, but there’s so much tension coursing between us right now, it feels like I should be able to reach out and tug on it. 

My eyes zero in on a stray water droplet sliding down the slope of his neck, and before I’ve made the conscious decision to, I’m leaning forward to lick it off. 

He goes completely still beneath my mouth, but it’s only a millisecond, and then I’m pulling away, a smile on my lips. “Just maybe.” 

Genuine surprise flits across his face. He wasn’t expecting me to lean into the game. 

Well, maybe I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve, too. 

Of course, in true Adrian fashion, he recovers too quickly for me to actually relish in having the upper hand. “I think it’s time for some sleep, don’t you, sweetheart?” His eyes dance with amusement. 

I try to ignore the burn of disappointment as I crawl under the covers, slot my body against his, and let him tug me close. 

He presses a soft kiss into my hair. “Goodnight, sweetheart.” 

It’s only now, with my head resting against his chest, do I realize that his heart’s beating like a jackhammer.

***

“Y

ou know, you don’t have to have dinner with my mom. I’m officially releasing you from this boyfriend duty,” I say, blinking against the afternoon sun beaming down on us. 

Mobile’s just about the only place in the country that requires a pair of sunglasses in the dead of winter. 

Still, I’m thankful there’s a little bit of sunlight to cut the chill that’s rustling the bushes. Mobile’s Botanical Garden doesn’t hit its prime until early spring, but I’ve always found their winter gardens to be especially spectacular. 

The swinging bench we’ve picked is especially cozy. It’s cocooned between the dusty pink camellias and the Taiwan cherry trees. 

“Does she prefer French cuisine over Moroccan?” Adrian doesn’t so much as spare me a glance as he scrolls through potential restaurant options on his phone. 

“I can’t say she’s ever had either.” 

“There’s a quaint little French bistro downtown, but the Moroccan restaurant looks more private,” he explains. “There are a few chophouses too, but I doubt anything worth our time’s going to be in this state.” He finally turns to look at me. “Is your mother afraid of flying?” 

I blink at him. “Please tell me you’re not about to propose a restaurant that we need to fly to.” 

He pouts. He actually pouts. “Why not? There’s this amazing farm-to-table restaurant in Maine, and the best barbecue I’ve ever had in my life in Tennessee. It’d be a short flight. I can charter a private jet for us and –” 

Another blink. “You want to charter a private jet? For dinner?” 

“It’s not ideal, I know,” he replies. “I’d prefer to use one of the family jets, but if I do, I’ll need to explain why I’m using one of the family jets…”

“Your family has private jets. Not jet. But jets,” I repeat. “Are you sure that word’s supposed to be plural?” 

“Well, we have four,” he explains with no more deference than if he was listing off a throw pillow collection. “It used to be five, but my parents gifted the Gulfstream to a some family friends.” 

I know that after all I’ve learned about Adrian, private jet ownership should be a more digestible concept, but it’s moments like these – like the Harvard conversation – where I’m reminded just how painfully out of depth I am. 

A secretive smile creeps over his mouth as he adds, “You know…I’ll have full access to the Bombardier at Harvard. I can take you anywhere in the world.” 

I raise an eyebrow, ignoring the spark of excitement that flares to life in my chest. “You’re trying to sell me Harvard again.” 

“No,” he corrects. “I’m just letting you know that we could be spending our weekends in Santorini. Or Dubai. Japan. You spin the globe, see where your finger lands, and I’ll take you there.” 

The possibility of it absolutely thrills me – which is why it takes every bit of self-control to pretend like it doesn’t. “Right. Weekends in Santorini. That sounds terrible. Just awful.” 

His smile broadens. 

“But not tonight,” I continue, desperate to change the subject. “There doesn’t need to be any private jets or fancy dinners in different states. Really, there doesn’t need to be a meet-the-boyfriend dinner at all.” I think about Rick trying to order a Coors Light and complaining about portion sizes at a French bistro. 

I cringe. 

His mouth quirks up. “So, a local chophouse then?”

I go to argue, but a gust of wind ruffles his hair, and I’m temporarily rendered speechless by how effortlessly beautiful it makes him look. 

For me, the southern sun’s a ruthless adversary that burns more than it kisses, but it’s only softened Adrian’s features, warming his endlessly black eyes into a syrupy brown and highlighting the copper hues in his hair. 

Even Mother Nature’s charmed by him. 

I sigh. “Look, I appreciate the gesture, but it’s not necessary. If you haven’t been able to tell, my relationship with my mother is…” I scour my brain for the right word. “...complicated. She’s one drug or alcohol or shoplifting accusation away from turning my bedroom into Rick’s man cave or something.” 

He arches an eyebrow. “All the more reason to impress her then.” 

A bitter chuckle escapes me. “I’m sure you already have. Just about anyone but her own daughter’s capable of it.” 

“Well, that’s a step-up from my parents. They’re not impressed by anyone.” Unlike me, there’s no resentment buried in his tone. 

Probably because his parents have done much worse than be a little apathetic to his accomplishments. 

Before my thoughts can stray to the journal and what I read there, I say, “I’m not sure why you’re so hell-bent on spending time with my family, anyway. You’ve already met my mother. And Rick. Trust me when I tell you they’re better in small, infrequent doses.” 

Adrian stares at a branch of the large cherry tree sloping over our bench and providing minimal amounts of shade, and his mouth dips into a frown. “To be honest, I’m not entirely sure.” 

I shoot him a glare. “You’re not sure why you’re trying to subject you and me – but mostly me – to an uncomfortable family dinner where everyone’s going to have a steak knife at their disposal?”