Say You Love Me : a novel of romantic suspense and forbidden love (Reclaiming Heaven Book 1)

by E. R. Whyte

  “I know.” I hear Gunner shift on the sofa and then he’s standing right behind me, hands on my shoulders, turning me to face him. He moves his hands to cup my jaw and tilt my face up to his, searching my eyes for the answer to a question he hasn’t yet asked. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, and then he’s dipping his head, skating his lips, coaxing and seeking, over mine. Tell him to stop. My lips part on an inhalation to do just that, but instead, I find myself sighing into his kiss, giving in, giving up against the apology he offers. My eyes flutter shut as he takes my sigh as an invitation to deepen the kiss, his tongue delving into my mouth to stroke against mine. When my own hesitantly meets his, a low groan rumbles up from his chest and he steps even closer, his heat wrapping itself around me.

  And as the vibration of that groan—the same one, I realize, that I heard on stage a lifetime ago—travels through my spine, I am lost.

  I plunge my hands into his hair, breathe his name out soundlessly, and part my lips more fully as I lick temptation in.

  I’m going to hell, I think.

  Gunner draws back a tiny amount and teases my lips with his, brushing them back and forth with the barest of grazes. “We can forget about the job if you don’t want it. Just let me help you.” A shiver trembles through me at the thought of putting my faith entirely in him. I’d be giving up a source of income I’ve had for well over a year and trusting that everything will work out for the best. I can tell he feels my indecision, because he aligns his forehead with mine and waits, his hands on my shoulders, fingers stroking my collar bone. I pull from his grasp and move to the door.

  “No. You win,” I finally say, my voice raspy. “I’ll quit and tutor you.”

  He starts to smile, and I hurry to finish. “But let me be clear. That’s where it ends. I have no intention of being a convenient source of entertainment for you, and you have to respect my boundaries. This—” I gesture between us as his eyes narrow on mine. “Super hot. If you weren’t my student, I’d climb you like a tree, not gonna lie.” I give a shaky laugh and shake my head. “But I can’t, Gunner. Not now, not while I’m your teacher. You have to be good with that.”

  Gunner steps in close and covers my hand on the doorknob with his own. For a long moment he does and says nothing, just looks down at me with a steady gray gaze that sees right through every excuse I just spouted and calls me on my shit.

  Because the truth? I’m freaking scared. I’m scared of what I feel when he’s this close to me. I’m scared of how I think about him when he’s not around. I’m scared of that slow flip my belly does when I see him walk into my classroom. Scared of trusting him, leaning on him, and then having every one of my fears exposed as truths when he does the inevitable and grows bored with me.

  “You remember watching The Princess Bride when we were kids? Over and over?” I nod, and Gunner bends and places a kiss at the corner of my mouth. “I would say, ‘As you wish,’” he says, “but my name isn’t Wesley.” With that, he twists the knob, opens the door, and leaves me more confused than before.

  What the hell did I just agree to?

  27

  Shiloh

  Several days later, there’s finally an afternoon that works for Mr. Ford to meet with me regarding tutoring. I step out of the farm truck Gunner had brought by for me the day my car broke down and shut the door, trying not to gape. His home is a sprawling confusion of a farmhouse, the main section of it a massive barn-shaped construction with a wide porch, multiple cupolas, dormers, and weathervanes in the upper part. The lower story of the building is river rock, the roof, copper shingle. The style and building materials mark this as the oldest part of the house, while a hodge podge of newer additions jut out in various directions. One is nearly all glass, floor to ceiling windows set apart with the most minimal of cedar shake siding. Another is stone, but perfectly round except for where it sets into the original building. It has several long, narrow windows and a white wooden door leading out to a fenced in garden. It is the most eccentric, beautiful home I have ever seen.

  I’m so enraptured by it I don’t at first notice the men standing outside, Gunner leaning against a pillar and his father speaking on a cell phone. As I approach, he ends his conversation and meets me half-way, hand extended. Gunner takes a step forward and waits.

  “Miss Brookings? I’m Michael Ford. Please call me Mike.”

  “And I’m just Shiloh,” I return, shaking his hand. He is tall and physically imposing, like Gunner, and so similar in appearance there is no doubting they are father and son. Where Gunner’s eyes are the color of a winter sky, though, Mike’s eyes are blue. “Your place is incredible. It’s like stepping into Wonderland.”

  He chuckles and motions me forward, into the house. “It’s different. The main house has been around since the late 1800s, and the owners have all added their stamp since that time. It just sprawls.” Like a big, lazy calico cat, I think, thinking of all the different parts that somehow make up a cohesive whole.

  “What was your contribution?”

  “We did the pool house, around back, and the pool. It was perfect for the kids.” Mike’s face takes on a distant expression. “We built it the summer before Esme was born.” I nod, sorry for prying and bringing up unpleasant memories.

  “It’s lovely.” We walk up the steps and into the house, into a roomy foyer, its ceiling banded with heavy wooden beams. “I must thank you, before we get started. I appreciate the loan of your resources while my vehicle is being repaired.”

  “It’s no bother at all. Gunner told me you were having some trouble?”

  “Ah…I’ve had some unpleasantness, yes. I’m not certain if my car is connected, but I hear you have someone you trust taking a look into it.”

  “We did, yes, but the police picked it up to take a look.”

  “Ah.”

  We follow as his father leads the way into a study of sorts, a room with a square wooden table in its center, walls lined with shelves of books, a computer station, and a desk in front of a wall of windows extending down to a bench of pillows. It’s peaceful and comfortable.

  “This is where you guys will be working if you agree. Gunner informed you about his dyslexia?”

  “Yes.” I steal a glance at Gunner, who seems content to let his father lead the conversation. “We didn’t talk a lot about it, but once he told me I could have kicked myself for not noticing sooner.” I pull a notebook from my bag. “I’ll need to get some background information, if that’s okay.”

  “Of course. Have a seat, please.” We all sit at the small table, and I’m acutely aware of Gunner just inches from me. The graze of his knee against mine under the table. His scent, clean and masculine. The heat that rolls off his skin.

  Mr. Ford tosses a thick manila folder on the table in front of me, regaining my wandering attention. “In that folder is everything you’ll need regarding Gunner’s dyslexia.” I nod my thanks and reach for the file. “I’m more interested, though, in how you plan on handling this tutoring arrangement.”

  “Okay, so a rough plan of action is to meet with you on a daily basis after school,” I say, speaking directly to Gunner. “We’ll go over any work done in class, as well as any assignments due at a later date, and organize them together. I think we should be using a dictation software, as well… you can speak your ideas and watch them take shape on the page.”

  He nods. “I like that idea.”

  “In our sessions, we’ll use oral strategies to ensure that you understand the content, and then use the keyboard and typing to help him circumvent the dysgraphia. We could theoretically use this in the classroom, too… that’s up to you.” Again, he nods, and I continue, providing a list of different things we can do to move Gunner forward.

  “What do you think?” I ask them both when I’ve isolated all the specifics I can think of.

  “Well, I like the sound of that, but that’s not exactly what I was asking when I asked how you were going to handle this.”
Mike’s gaze is so much like Gunner’s, direct and piercing.

  “How do you mean?”

  “I was a little worried when Gunner told me how old you were. I wasn’t certain you would be knowledgeable enough or professional enough for the task. I also understand there to be some personal history between the two of you?”

  I’m caught speechless. “I’m not quite sure what to say to that. We attended school together, but as you know, I was several grades ahead of Gunner. He and my younger brother were best friends.”

  He lifts a single eyebrow in a manner that reminds me of how Gunner does the same thing. “I have a strong sense that my son has feelings for you, Shiloh.” His words carry no censure, but there is no question that he wants to know what is going on. I try to decide how to best explain Gunner’s pursuit and my feelings without putting either of us in an awkward position or lying… especially with Gunner in the room.

  “Dad.” Gunner groans and bangs his head against the table.

  “Mr. Ford, there is absolutely nothing — I mean, I —”

  “I don’t really care,” he interrupts. “You can relax. You are close enough in age and possess history enough that I feel there’s a gray area. The one thing I am concerned about is the legitimacy of his grades being called into question. If people think you are in a relationship, that’s just a natural next step. With him being a senior—”

  “Mr. Ford, I have to stop you there. There is nothing going on between your son and me.” In my peripheral, I see Gunner raise his eyebrows, but he doesn’t dispute my statement. It’s his father that laughs.

  “Come now, Shiloh. My son has talked about you endlessly for the past three years. Do you really expect me to believe that he’s content with having you as his teacher only?”

  I sit up straighter in my seat. “It’s not just about what makes Gunner content, sir.”

  “Mike, please,” he corrects. “And of course not. But I know from near nineteen years’ experience that Gunner doesn’t give up when he’s set his mind to something. I hate to break it to you, but right now that something is you.”

  “Gunner is… intense,” I concede. “He is determined.” I wait for anger or contempt from Mike, but see nothing but understanding in his eyes, and that same amusement as before. “Mr. Ford? It’s not funny. I keep telling him that he is too young for me, and he needs to stop flirting with me, but—”

  “—let me guess. He’s just not taking no for an answer?” I shake my head and Mike laughs. “He wasn’t particularly good at that as a child, either. Listen, Shiloh, word of advice. The more you resist, the more he’ll fight.”

  “Sir, I don’t think I’m hearing you correctly. Are you saying you want me to date your son? I can’t do that! I’m his teacher.”

  Mike scratches the back of his head. “I wouldn’t advise that you let him take you to prom or anything, no. But I trust my son’s judgment, and some weird quirk of fate has thrown you two together in odd circumstances. It’s quick and efficient to dismiss any possibility of a relationship, I think. He’s younger, you’re his teacher, blah, blah. Not everything is so black and white, though.” I’m finding it difficult to believe what he is saying. This is not at all what I thought I’d be hearing when I came over today. I start to speak up, to shut this down, but for once I don’t have any handy reasons on the tip of my tongue.

  Gunner takes that opportunity to rescue me. “Dad, what the fuck are you doing? I don’t need your help in this department.”

  Mike holds his hands up in front of him. “Just talking shades of gray, son. Anyway…” He turns to me. “Shiloh—it was a pleasure meeting you. I’m looking forward to having you get Gunner on track and seeing you around the place. I am going to go pack, so I’ll leave you two crazy kids to it.”

  Gunner looks at his shoes while I study him. I’m the first to break the uncomfortable silence that descends after his father steps out of the room. “Crazy kids, huh?”

  He rubs a hand across the back of his neck, ruffling his hair. “Sorry about that. I swear I had nothing to do with it.”

  “Gunner, you didn’t even say anything. You just sat back and let him think…” I sputter to a stop.

  “Let him think you were attracted to me? I sure did. I wanted you to know how he felt about the situation. Do you have to get back right away or would you like a tour?”

  “Would I like a tour?” I shake my head. “Sure, why the hell not.” I leave my purse sitting on the table and follow as he walks out of the room. “I do have a question, though. What did he mean when he said not everything was so black and white?”

  Gunner shrugs. “He was probably referring to the fact that I’ve been working since I was in my early teens. I’m not a little kid, Shiloh. I’ve always known what I was going to do, and I’ve worked toward it. I haven’t been afraid to give stuff up for it when I needed to.” He looks at me, and the direct intensity of his expression gives me goosebumps. “I think he understands that you’re what I want.”

  “I don’t view you as a child. That’s not the problem. It’s that I’m your teacher, and like your dad said, people would question whether your grades were authentic. And I’m not a toy or a piece of candy, Gunner,” I tell him. I feel like I’ve said this before, but I guess another time won’t hurt. “You can’t just see me and decide ‘ooh, I want that,’ and decide I’m yours. I’m not yours.”

  “Don’t worry, dolcezza,” he says. “I’ll ask nicely first.” Gunner reaches for my hand as he starts to lead through his home. I place mine in my pockets to deter him and, if I’m honest with myself, to keep myself from grabbing eagerly on to him. Although I try to deposit the thoughts firmly in the ‘do not open’ box inside my brain, I can’t help remembering the feel of his lips against mine, the feel of those hands on my skin.

  So I pull my professional mantle close, or at least attempt to do so, and make the appropriate noises as Gunner takes me first to the kitchen. It’s large and rustic feeling, with a brick floor and stone fireplace at one end. Because of the chill in the air, there’s a fire crackling cheerfully on its hearth, casting a warm glow over the assemblage of copper pots and crockery.

  I slant an envious glance at the large island, topped with aged white marble that would be perfect for pastry dough.

  “It’s beautiful,” I tell Gunner as he looks around.

  “Thanks… usually Nonna is in here. I wanted you to meet her.”

  “Nonna?”

  “My grandmother. We’re Italian, so it’s always been Nonna.”

  He continues through another door, and I follow. “She lives with you?”

  “She’s been here forever. She came when my mother died and never left.”

  “I’m a little jealous. I wish I’d had a Nonna.” My honesty surprises me. I’d always longed for an older relative to help me carry the grief and responsibility after mom died, but she had no family.

  Gunner’s hand settles on the back of my neck and squeezes. “She’s one of a kind, but I’ll share.”

  “Nice of you. What does dole-say-suh mean?”

  Gunner raises his brow at me in question and chuckles at my butchering of the name he’s been teasing me with. We’re walking down a hall now, and he opens a door to show me what’s on the other side. “Guest room.”

  I nod at the comfortable-looking room, awash in late winter sunlight streaming in through the sheers on the window. “What does it mean?”

  There’s something in his eyes that makes me shiver when he replies. “Sweetness. Sweet taste.”

  Warmth slides through me at the nickname he’s chosen for me, and I know my skin flushes with heat. “Hmmm.”

  “Acceptable?” he queries.

  I tilt my head as we continue. “It’s nice,” I answer. “But you shouldn’t.”

  He opens the next door and considers me. “Because you need to keep things professional?”

  I look past him into the closet he’s revealed, filled with wi
nter coats and ski equipment organized neatly against the far wall. “Yes.”

  Gunner takes my hand and turns it over, exploring my palm with both his eyes and a calloused thumb that strokes leisurely at the fleshy pad at the base of my own thumb. “Fuck professional.” He tugs me forward into the closet, and I fall against him as he retreats into the small space, pulling the door closed behind us.

  “What are you doing?” I manage to gasp out. He doesn’t answer, instead spinning me around and pressing my back into the line of coats hanging in a neat row against the wall.

  “Do you remember the last time we were in a closet together, Shiloh?” His voice is low and seductive, and I swallow hard as it wraps around me in the closet’s gloom. I’m enveloped by the scent of leather, the faint mustiness of unworn shoes, and him. Gunner’s natural musk, accompanied by his cedar and bergamot aftershave, is heady. I can’t see him in front of me, but I can sense his bulk, feel the heat coming off his body as he cups my jaw in both hands and tilts my face up to his.

  “Yes,” I say, my own voice huskier and more revealing than I’d prefer. I don’t want him to know how much he affects me, how easily he can take me from zero to a hundred with just a glance or word.

  “It’s time for a do-over,” he says, and the next thing I know is his lips against mine.

  28

  Gunner

  She’s not mine, she said.

  Obviously, we’re not on the same page, because I’m hers. And she feels like mine…has since she walked into a closet with me years ago and led me straight to heaven. I’ve been with other girls, dated even, but a part of me has been on pause, waiting for her to show back up and reclaim what’s hers.

  Reclaim that heaven we shared when we didn’t realize its rarity.