own fault. Don’t intervene. I want whatever this is becoming with Windsor,” I pause, swallow loudly and continue, “I want it more than I’ve ever wanted anything else.” Normalcy. A real relationship with a woman. Stability. Warmth. Someone to come home to. Someone to fight for.
I see Windsor walking toward us, weaving her way through cars in the parking lot. She’s dressed like she just came from the office—high heels, white button up shirt, and all. I sigh, thinking of how I’ll be undressing her in my head throughout lunch. Button. Pop. Button. Pop. Boobs. Button. Pop. Button. Pop. Hard stomach. Belly button. She waves when she sees me, but it falters a little when she sees I’m talking to Morganna. Windsor is Morg’s friend and even she is wary of her. I laugh.
“Fuck it up on your own, then. I’ve already warned her, so I’m washing my hands of this,” Morganna says.
“And Stone will be washing out your mouth later,” I say.
She laughs a little as she turns to snatch up Windsor in a hug. The women exchange a few words and smiles, and then Windsor’s bounding into my arms smiling, making everything okay.
I pull her to my side as she wraps both of her arms around my waist. “Light day for you too?” I ask.
“I usually have Hannah clear my schedule on Fridays,” she replies as I lead her to a table way in the back where there is no possible way we’ll see anyone else that might interrupt us.
I hold the chair out for her and take my seat facing the door. Always facing the door. I’m uncomfortable if I’m not able to see the entry point. The male waiter, who looked at Windsor a touch too long, took our order and we’re finally alone.
“I do have to go back to the office after this. I have to finish up some work. I have a training conference next week in Richmond.” She’s giving me her schedule. I take that as a good sign.
I grab her hand. “I missed you,” I say.
“You just saw me last night, Maverick. I feel like if I don’t give you a chance to miss me, you’re going to get sick of me,” Windsor tells me, rubbing my hand. It feels so good. I smile. But not the big smile. It’s a sort of sad smile. Because she thinks I’ll get sick of her.
I look over my shoulder for a few seconds, intentionally averting my eyes from her completely. When I turn back, I say, “I missed you! I didn’t look at you for two seconds and I missed you. Of course not seeing you all night would make me miss you.” She shakes her head and her wavy brown hair swings around her shoulders. She laughs a little and her smiles reaches her eyes. She squeezes my hand.
“I missed you more. I miss seeing you and talking to you. Everything. For someone who doesn’t do relationships, you’re pretty good at them. I don’t think I’ve ever talked to someone so much in my life,” she admits. It makes me squirm a little, because I know she’s comparing me to her Nashhole, and also because she mentioned the word relationship. It’s what this is. I just never thought about defining it before now. Several dates and hours of calls and texts is definitely a relationship.
“A relationship, huh?” Maybe she won’t balk at coming to my damn house then. Asking her would be a step in the relationship direction. Wouldn’t it? Fuck. I am so out of my element. Her blue eyes flick down to our joined hands. She opens her mouth to speak, and then closes it again.
“Well, yeah. That’s what this is, right?” she whispers holding up our hands. “I mean you refuse to have sex with me, so I can’t be sure because healthy relationships usually involve sex…” she trails off, cutting short one of her rambles. I know her rambles contain nothing except truths, so I actually encourage them.
I lean over and kiss her cheek. “This is most definitely a relationship, Windsor. Just because I’m taking it slow doesn’t mean I don’t want to have sex with you. It just means I want everything else Windsor Forbes before it,” I whisper in her ear.
Exhilaration hits me in a rush. I admitted it. Out loud. That I wanted a relationship; that we are in a relationship.
The asshole waiter with his impeccable timing brings our salads at this moment. I know it