But I resent the hold she has over me. I’ve survived my entire life without wanting anything or needing anyone. Before I met her, I was numb; now I feel the cold.

And I hate that as well. But I also love it.

“Okay, ladies, party’s over,” she called into the adjacent room, holding my gaze.

“We figured as much,” was Ashley’s response. “And ask Alex if I can borrow his copy of Lonesome Dove.”

“You can borrow it,” I called out.

Sandra and I shared a smile.

Ashley was awesome. Her dry sense of humor won me over, and her love for reading. I’d never debated the merits of a book before with anyone. She’d surprised me by challenging my perception of certain genres, then began littering our bookshelves with novels she wanted me to read.

Elizabeth emerged first from the living room, fully dressed, and tapped my shoulder as she flew past. “Nico is expecting to play chess with you tomorrow.”

“Why? He always loses.”

Elizabeth turned to face me and walked backwards to the exit. “But that’s not the point, is it?” She paired this statement with wide eyes and raised eyebrows.

I frowned at her. Before I could respond, Ashley rushed into the hall.

“We’re leaving. We can tell when we’re not wanted. Also, I expect a thank you note and some flowers for picking out that pretty set of lingerie. Maybe a new book too. And some yarn.” Ashley said all this as she waved over her shoulder without turning around. She grabbed Elizabeth by the hand and tugged her out the door.

Sandra’s attention was focused on her friends’ backs, her hands on her hips. I indulged myself by watching her profile. She was smiling.

I felt the pull. It was a sharp tugging in the center of my chest that sometimes made breathing difficult. The pull—a compulsion to touch her body, to touch the source of light within her, to stroke it higher—had been why I approached her and spoke to her in the first place.

Others—strangers, her legion of platonic male friends—are drawn to Sandra because of how she makes them feel. These are the people I hate. They want a part of it, a part of her.

I used to watch her, study her, and I still do. At one time, I told Sandra that it was the power of the red dress that compelled me; that was half true. The last few times she came to the restaurant, I saw sadness in her, and loneliness. Her light was dimming. This woman who’d shone brightly for others kept so very little of it for herself.

Maybe it’s because of how I’m wired, or—as one of my past therapists would diagnose it—maybe I have a hero complex, but instead of seeking her light for the way it made me feel, because I wanted a part of her, I pursued Sandra because I wanted to be the reason for it.

I wanted to be the one to make her shine. I wanted her to need me, to want me. I wanted to be the one to make her feel valued, to challenge her and force her to see how exquisite she is.

I wanted this woman in every way, and I wanted to be the one to light her up, to make her burn.

Like she made me burn.

Her eyes flickered to mine and narrowed; she’d caught me staring and was confused.

She said, “I called your cell phone.”

“Did you?”

“You’re as bad as Janie. Why do you carry it if you never put the battery in it?”

“Just in case.”

Like a sane person, Sandra would take my Just in case to mean Just in case I need to call someone. What I meant was Just in case I need to create a decoy hacking beacon.

I’d reprogrammed the phone to emit high frequency sound waves. These sound waves would penetrate the NSA’s network and raise an alarm. This would serve as a smokescreen and draw attention away from whatever I might be doing at the time.

Despite our time together, the months we’d shared and how I’d changed, I doubted I would ever stop playing chess with the world.

“Hmm….” She studied me. I let her.

As her green eyes danced over my features, she slipped away from the wall and wound her arms around my neck.

“Where have you been?”

Her body, was soft and warm, like her words. I growl-hummed my response to her closeness; it’s instinctual. I also swallowed down my now familiar desire to rip off her remaining clothes and take her against the wall, in the shower, on the counter, on the couch, in line at the grocery store—basically, wherever we happen to be.

I placed my hands on her h*ps where the curve of her body was steepest as it sloped to her waist.

“I was running errands.”

“My parents are going to be here tomorrow.”

I nodded, didn’t allow my apprehension to show. For the first time in my entire life, I wanted to make a good impression.

“Is everything set?” I rubbed the expanse of skin on either side of her belly button with my thumbs. This always made her squirm.

She nodded, and I was rewarded—and tortured—for my thumb maneuvers by her pressing against me. “Yes. Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Yes.”

She looked skeptical.

“I do.”

She tilted her head to the side, her eyes narrowing further.

“I do,” I repeated.

“Okay.” She sighed, lifted on her tiptoes, and placed a gentle kiss on my mouth. It wasn’t enough. My fingers flexed on their own, staying a potential retreat.

She didn’t move away. Instead, she lightly scratched the back of my head, just above my neck, and said, “Just a few more weeks. After the wedding, things can get back to normal.”

“You mean, things can get back to unbelievable.”

She smiled, kissed me again. I moved to deepen the kiss because I had no choice, but she tilted her head away.

“Alex.”

“Yes?” I sought her mouth. She resisted.

“I love you, you know.”

My eyes focused on hers. The mischief in them shone through, as though this—her love for me—was the secret she kept.

I nodded. “I know.”

“I want you,” she whispered. “I want to be with you.”

“I know,” I said, because I did know.

Because I trust her.

THE END