don’t know what it is. “Haven’t I been saying yes all along?”
“Not quite.”
I laugh softly, and it floats away with the wind. “What? Do you want me to beg?”
“Not exactly.” A smirk flashes over his too-handsome features. “Although begging never hurts.”
I shake my head. “You’re the worst.”
“I am.”
My nails flex against the column, when all I want to do is reach for him.
His head dips low, and he whispers in my ear. “What do you want, Catarina?”
All I have to say is you, and he’ll take care of the rest. Just one little word. But it will not come, regardless of how much I want to say it.
I bite my lower lip. “I don’t know.”
“Fair enough.” His gaze dips to my mouth, and he brushes his lips against mine. “Sleep well.”
And just like that, he’s gone, disappearing from the lights of the house into the darkness.
With a sigh, I head in and climb the stairs. When I get to my room, I flop backward on the bed and stare up at the ceiling. Frustration is like an irritant against my skin.
What is wrong with me?
As I blink at the ceiling, my body aching with wanting him, it hits me.
I’m afraid.
It’s not stubbornness.
Or pride, like I thought.
It’s not about not wanting to be the one to give in.
It’s fear.
Caden Landry scares me.
He’s the first thing that’s threatened my contained little world in as long as I can remember. All this time, I’ve cocooned myself, isolated from life and risk, but also from reward.
After spending the majority of my childhood feeling one step away from disaster, I found a way to feel safe and never ventured out.
I finally understand what Caden is waiting for.
He’s not being arrogant, or wanting to rub my desire for him in my face.
He’s waiting for me to take that risk—not just on him, but on life. He’s waiting for me to step out of the warm, snug safety of my constraints and leap.
Certainty flows through me, replacing my agitation. I’m right.
This is what he wants.
I turn my head to stare at the double doors that lead to my balcony and face Caden’s cottage. I understand, and now I have to figure out what to do about it.
Is clinging to security who I want to be?
Or do I want to be something else—someone else?
Someone who doesn’t let fear stop her. I used to be like that. Wyatt and Jackson always talk about it, but their words are separate from me—belonging to a younger girl, another time and place. Not me.
But could I be?
Again?
I calm my breathing.
Yes, I think I could. Or at least tonight I want to try.
I sit up, rest my palms on the bed, and look at the balcony. I could go outside and beckon him over. I’m almost positive he’s on the porch, waiting in those dark shadows to see if I’ll finally say yes.
But I don’t want to do that.
I want to go to him.
I stand, creep down the stairs, and go out the front door.
Barefoot, I walk across the lawn, and the wind blows in my hair, whipping across my cheeks. The night air is hot, humid, and sticky, the grass damp against my feet. I envision him watching me walk through the emptiness, looking like Cathy on the moors in Wuthering Heights.
My heart is pounding, my skin flushed, but I don’t let it stop me.
And finally, I see him sitting on the rocking chair my granddaddy made a million years ago.
I step onto the porch, breathless. “Hi.”
He gives me a long look. “You look mighty pretty in the moonlight.”
I walk over to him, coming to stand tall and proud before him. “Ask me again.”
His eyes darken, and he rocks gently in the chair. “What do you want, Catarina?”
I step forward, lean down, and whisper, “You.”
Then I kiss him, and hide absolutely nothing.
My mouth clings to his, and he wraps his hand around the nape of my neck, tugging me closer.
The chair is narrow, but I manage to slide on top, my dress riding high on my thighs as I straddle him. His free hand settles onto my hip, squeezing gently as our tongues tangle.
I tilt my head, deepening the contact.
It feels exactly right, exactly how I envisioned it. I don’t feel like I’m losing anything, but instead, gaining something I didn’t know was missing.
I trace the line of his jaw, letting the pads of my fingers smooth over the rough planes of his face. His mouth moves over mine.