Chuckling again, he released me to check on the potatoes. I settled onto one of his stools, watching him move around his kitchen, trying not to totally freak out over the fact that we were doing this. Date night at Graham’s loft, the picture of domestic bliss.
I’d never had this before. Not as a kid living with my mom, not with my offbeat hippie chick aunt, not living by myself, definitely not with any of the guys I’d dated. It was uncharted territory for me. But clearly not for Graham. He moved with total confidence, whipping together a gourmet meal with the same ease he handled a gun or steered his Bronco.
“When we head to your place tonight, remind me to bring my tool bag,” he called over his shoulder as he stooped to slide the salmon onto the top rack of the oven.
I sipped my wine. “Why do you need your tool bag?”
“Your aunt had some basics in the garage, but half of them are so rusty and old they should go out with the trash.”
“I’m… not following.”
He finally turned to face me, taking a sip of his own wine. “My tools are better.”
“Still not following.”
“Gwen, babe, how do you expect me to build you bookshelves without my tools?”
I sucked in a sharp, audible breath. “What?”
“Last night you told me you always pictured the room I’ve been crashing in as your library.” His brow furrowed in confusion. “You forget?”
No.
No, I hadn’t forgotten.
I’d been half asleep, talking about nothing of consequence in the aftermath of several intense rounds between the sheets, my body and mind in a state of complete relaxation. Graham had peppered me with questions about the house, curious which room I wanted to tackle now that we’d finished the dining room. It had taken two days and two trips to the hardware store, but the walls were now a deep navy shade that made me shimmy with joy every time I walked past.
Somuch better than orange floral wallpaper.
I hadn’t realized his postcoital questions would translate into immediate action. (I should’ve. This was Graham we were talking about, after all.) But it seemed he’d taken my sleepy musings about a home library — complete with built-in shelves, a rolling ladder, and a reading nook by the window — very seriously.
“You…” I swallowed, struggling to speak. “You’re building me a library?”
“Assuming you still want one, yeah.”
I promptly burst into tears.
Graham was there in less than a heartbeat, arms closing around me, pulling me into his chest. His hand stroked my hair as I sobbed against his t-shirt.
“Shhh, Gwen. Jesus, baby, what’s wrong?”
Tilting my head back to meet his eyes, I knew my face was blotchy red from crying, but I didn’t care. “You!You are what’s wrong.”
“I’m going to need a bit of elaboration.”
“You’re just… you’re so…” I sobbed again, swallowing it down before it could escape, and pounded my balled fist against his heart. “You’re so… so…wonderful.”
He stilled.
“And I need you to stop.” I whimpered. “I need you to stop being considerate. Stop doing things for me. Stop beingyou. Because I won’t be able to stand it if… I won’t be able to get over it if… if…”
His fingers lifted to my cheek, wiping away my flowing tears. His voice was unbearably gentle. “If what, gorgeous?”
“If we end.”
His body went solid against mine, every muscle locked tight. “Gwen…”
“This scares the shit out me,” I confessed, the words thick with emotion. “You and me, when we’re together? It’s so good, itterrifies me.I don’t know how to process it. I’m not good at this kind of thing. I’ve never really done this… longterm relationship stuff.”