The Negotiator (Professionals, #7) - Jessica Gadziala Page 0,64
Thinking of jobs. Of coworkers. Of my past. Of my possible future. Of what I was going to watch on TV while I stuffed my face with takeout.
I was never fully immersed in the moment.
Until I came here.
I realized with no small stab of guilt that I hadn't even thought about my crew back home in days. Those people who had taken up the dominant places in my head. And I damn near forgot them for a short span of time.
Even realizing it, though, the thoughts rushed away, immediately got replaced with new thoughts.
Like what it meant that after all these years, this was where I found my happy.
In this home.
In this country.
With these people.
Especially Christopher.
I knew things were new.
I understood that deep connections often took a lot of time. But even knowing that, I had to admit that what I felt toward him was deeper than any connection I'd had with anyone else.
Which was saying something. Because I had spent a Russian winter in a shack with my crew, with no way to get away from them. I'd camped out in countless hotel rooms with Kai, bullshitting about life. I'd been to birthdays and Christmases and baby showers with those people.
They had more of my time.
But there was no denying that Christopher had more of me.
I had given it to him. Fully. Without hesitation. All my stories poured out, tripping over each other in their desperation to finally be told, to be heard, to be understood.
And he did.
God, he did.
He understood.
I never could have anticipated just how good that would feel. To be seen. To be heard. To be understood. And cared for not despite all of that, but because of it.
There was no denying the fact—and believe me, an insecure voice had tried—that Christopher did. Care for me.
He often reached for me first.
And not just sexually.
He reached for my hand. He grabbed my knee under the table. He pulled me up against him when we all watched movies in the living room. He was always finding excuses to be near me, to put his hands on me.
He went out of his way to make me coffee. To bring me sweets when he happened to go into town. To praise my meals even when they didn't come out even halfway edible.
He cared.
How much, well, I couldn't answer that. Because I hadn't asked. It seemed invasive and premature to do so when I hadn't even fully figured out how much I cared for him, what it meant that I cared that much.
I wasn't stupid.
This time spent in this place—this was us playing house. This was not real life. This was not what our reality would be like.
If we both came to the conclusion that this was something serious, something we didn't want to let go of when we eventually emerged from this paradise, what did that mean for the future?
Because we both had lives.
In different corners of the world.
The idea of giving up my career and my friends pierced me. Yet the idea of going back to them and leaving Christopher behind was equally as painful.
But I knew one thing about life.
'Having it all' was an illusion.
No one got everything.
Only children and fools thought they could.
The rest of us understood that life involved sacrifices.
But what was I supposed to sacrifice here? What could I give up without feeling like a part of me was being ripped away? Without feeling like I would be living half a life afterward?
"I give up," Christopher declared. Those were big words for a man like him, one so used to getting everything he wanted. "He's like a dog chasing after a bitch in heat. Hey," he called, voice losing the edge of frustration laced with the barest hint of humor it often had when speaking of his brother. "Are you alright?" he added, moving closer, dark eyes boring into me.
Usually, I prided myself in my poker face, in the fact that no one could see anything that I didn't want to show them.
But that was another thing about Christopher. He saw through me. I couldn't hide from him.
And, what's more, I didn't want to.
"I'm okay," I told him.
"I think we can do better than okay," he decided, eyes full of promise as he moved closer, as he reached for a hand towel, holding it out to me, making me realize my hands were still in the steadily cooling water. When I pulled them out, they were pruny and stiff as I dried them.