Page 81 of The Finish Line
Did she see the lights? Chances are with Sir Piss-a-lot, she did last night.
Hopefully, it was some consolation for the complete fucking fool I made of myself. But I know her, and I know her heart. What I don’t know is if that heart has any more forgiveness in it for me at this point, especially now. I asked her for a date, and she came home to a fucking shitshow. Covered in it, I gaze down at her before gently pushing the hair away from her face for a better view. No evident tear streaks, no puffy eyes, and for that, I’m thankful. I’m sure I still reek of gin and desperation, but I don’t want to miss her reaction to me when she finally wakes. It will tell me all I need to know. I don’t have to wait long because a minute into caressing her, she smiles at me before her eyes flutter open.
Thank Christ.
“How are you feeling?”
I draw my brows. “Like I ran a marathon while on an IV of gin and wine.”
Her deepening smile erases more of my anxiety. “Pretty much what happened.”
“I’m sorry. I meant to—”
She covers my mouth with her hand. “You apologized a lot. Yelled a lot. Revealed a lot. And unloaded a lot of that baggage. Unfortunately—” she purses her swollen-from-sleep lips—“you don’t know how to unlock your suitcases.” Brow creasing with worry, she lifts a hand to my pounding head before gently running her fingers through my hair. “Do you remember anything?”
“Some.”
“Well, to start, you gave the book a bad review,” she says, her soft laughter echoing in the bedroom.
I wince, mostly from the pain in my head, some from humiliation.
“I had a plan, and it seems I’m not so good at executing them these days.”
“Well, you are on vacation.” She edges her chin on her pillow, moving closer to me, and I’m thankful I brushed my teeth. Gin-brewed sweat beads at my temple as I try my best to recall the details of my blackout.
“Forgive me, Trésor. I don’t re—”
Her full smile steals my speech. “Remember that your calf had sex with Beau and that you’re expecting in four to six weeks?”
I faceplant my pillow and then turn to her and grin, opening one eye. She runs her fingers through my tangled, flour-caked hair, and I rest in the touch, a hope igniting in me that I’ve been starving for.
Her eyes do a slow sweep down my face before her tone turns to one of concern. “You were brutally honest.”
“I don’t know how to make things right.”
“I saw the effort you put in while I was cleaning my destroyed kitchen.” She widens her eyes. “No more cooking drunk, okay?”
“You should have let me clean it. Forgive me?”
“For last night, I’ll consider it.” She runs her hand down my bicep and arm before squeezing my hand and entangling our fingers. “The lights, Tobias, they are beautiful.”
“I didn’t want you to see them alone.”
“I think I needed to.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning, I needed to see for myself what you haven’t told me in all the years we were apart. You’re... a lot to handle in a room sometimes. I don’t mean it in a bad way, but you’re distracting. And your guilt... it’s eating you alive. It’s been years, Tobias. Haven’t you made peace with any of it?”
“With Roman, all of that, yes, but with... everything else, no,” I close my eyes. “I don’t know how to stop it.”
“We’ll get through this.” She moves her upper half to cover me, and if it weren’t for my pounding head, I’d be all too eager to try and make love to her until she forgets the ass I was last night and remembers the controlled man she met. The man capable of conducting himself.
“Je suis un putain d’idiot,” I mumble, biting my lip.
“My idiot.” She grips my jaw and uses her thumb to pull it free from my teeth. For the first time since I came back to her, she initiates a kiss. Heart rocketing, I cup the back of her head and latch on, keeping her close, and kiss her back through the protest in my screaming head.
“Tobias,” she moans against my lips, and I have a vision of ripping flannel, of more moans, of burying my cock inside her.