Page 41 of Something Forever
He hums in response.
“Goodnight, Liam.”
“Happy Birthday, Whitney.”
16
LIAM
Iwake up feeling incredibly warm. Blinking against the bright light, I adjust to my surroundings and realize the source of the warmth is Whitney.
She’s curled into me, her arms wrapped around my torso in a vice grip. Her soft thigh is draped over me and my hand strokes her skin absently. Worse than that, I’ve got a classic case of morning wood.
Shit.
Moving slowly, I lift her arm and try to slip out from underneath her grip. If I can just get to the bathroom before she notices the entanglement we find ourselves in, all awkwardness can be ignored. Just as I think I’m in the clear, she starts to stir. I freeze, holding my breath.
Don’t wake up. Don’t wake up.
Shifting further, I roll her entirely off me and onto her side of the bed. All last night, I couldn’t help but grow more fascinated with her. At some point between our first glass of wine and falling asleep side-by-side, I realized how wrong I was about her. I thought she was too cheery for her own good, but the truth is that she’s just an optimist. She’s filled with this unexpected joy, but she will stick up for herself, biting back with an endearing stubbornness whenever I piss her off. It’s a combination I find myself oddly enamored by.
Not to mention, she’s gorgeous. And that kiss…
I guess I thought we’d just skip that section of the wedding. I definitely hadn’t expected her to kiss me or for her lips to be soft as sin. She tasted as good as she smells — like rose petals and sweetness — and I didn’t want it to end. When she pulled away, I wanted to grab her around the waist and show her what a real kiss with me is like. Though that might not have been appropriate for a chapel.
Then I went and told her about Luke. I have no clue what came over me, but something about the dim light of the room and her soft whisper had me feeling unexpectedly raw. I guess I’m just tired of carrying this shit all by myself, and telling her about it felt like a weight lifting off my shoulders.
It felt… right.
Taking a deep breath, I cross to the bathroom and close the door behind me, leaning against the wall in relief.
This is not good.
We’ve been married for less than twenty-four hours and I’ve already got a raging hard-on for the girl. Guess I’m in for a cold shower. Let’s just hope it’s not the first of many.
“What the hell is this? That is not a word,” Whitney argues, pointing to the Scrabble tiles I laid out.
“Ruddy? It absolutely is a word,” I point out. “Haven’t you ever listened to Supertramp? Breakfast in America?”
“I literally have no idea what you’re talking about.”
I shake my head. “Your music knowledge is woefully lacking.”
“You can’t use British slang. That doesn’t count.”
“First of all, it’s not slang, it’s a real word. Secondly, I don’t need an American to lecture me about proper English. We invented the language, you know.”
“Yeah, you invented colonialism, too. You an expert on that, Liam?”
“Oh, fuck off,” I say, and this time, we both laugh.
Spending time with Whitney always seems to put a smile on my face. There’s just something about her that seems to both rile me up and calm me down at the same time. She’s grown more comfortable with me overnight, it seems, something I both appreciate and despise, since she’s currently wearing those tiny shorts again. I swear she’s purposefully trying to send my mind into a tailspin.
She lays down a new word, traitor, and I raise my eyebrows, scanning her other words, which are hell, lies, and demon.
“Are you trying to tell me something?” I ask, waving at the board.
“I swear it’s a coincidence.”