“Love you.”
He turns me loose, averting his face.
The mushrooming silence sucks all the air out of the room. I shrink against the sheets, wishing I could dive under them and disappear altogether. At last, Gray opens his mouth.
“Love you,” he answers gruffly.
He hurries away, still not looking at me.
A hot wave of emotion hits me as I watch him walk out, and I hastily dab at my eyes and battle back persistent tears.
Cortés clears his throat, pulls up a chair and drops into it, leaning his crutches against the end of the bed. He rests his elbows on his knees and hangs his head, pretending he can’t see what I’m doing, for which I’m grateful.
“You okay?” he asks after a while.
“Yep. You?”
“Bria. Don’t lie.”
I reach my left hand through the rails.
He takes it and stares down at my unbandaged fingertips, his expression troubled. “Have we got a triangle situation going on here that I need to be worried about?”
I hesitate. I’m not sure why. “Not as far as I’m concerned.”
He looks up at me, and the vulnerability in his eyes—he doesn’t even try to hide it—makes my heart contract. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Some of the tension eases from his shoulders, and from the room. “Good.”
“That was very civilized of you,” I say. “Offering to leave so Gray and I could talk.”
“Not really. I was planning to listen at the door.”
I laugh and he grins, but something about the humor doesn’t feel right, not with all that’s happened in the last few days.
“I’m sorry about your dad,” I say, sobering.
He makes a broken sound, quickly stifled, and drops his head into his hands. His wide shoulders heave with silent sobs.
I give him a minute, turning my face toward the window because I’ve cried those same orphan’s tears before, and I know he’s embarrassed to be doing it in front of me.
It’s much darker outside now, I notice, and the storm clouds are threatening swirls of gray streaked with black, close enough to touch. Thunder rumbles in the distance, making me shiver beneath my blankets.
I hope we get to shore soon.
He recovers his composure after a few minutes and runs his sleeve over his eyes. When he turns back to me, he seems better.
“Sorry,” he mutters.
“Don’t be.”
He takes my hand again.
“So . . . Have I mentioned that Columbia’s a good school?”
“Is that so?” I ask softly. “And what’s Columbia got to recommend it?”
“Me.”
“Come here,” I say, tugging on his hand.
He stands and leans over the bed’s rails, angling his lips over mine.
“Did I hear you tell that guy you love him a few minutes ago?” he asks, his voice whispering over my waiting mouth.
“Gray,” I tell him. “His name is Gray. And he’s a big part of my life.”
Cortés frowns, pulling back.
“But,” I say, “I’m not in love with him.”
Cortés’s heavy brows lower into a glare. “I have a Y chromosome, okay? Help me out. I have no idea what that means.”
“It means I love him like a brother. And I’m ready. Just, you know, in case you want to recommend anyone else for me to fall in love with.”
I stare into his eyes for a long beat, convinced I’ve said too much and wishing I could take it all back.
But then he smiles and leans all the way in, fusing his mouth with mine.
“Yeah,” he says between kisses. “Me.”
A recovering lawyer, Ann Christopher was first published in 2006 and is the author of 18 contemporary romance novels, 5 novellas, one young adult novel and a tragically bad starter novel that will forever remain under her bed, where it belongs.
When she’s not writing or communing with her readers on her Facebook page, Ann likes to do the following, in no particular order: read; cook; eat; hang out at Target looking for new stuff she doesn’t need; crochet; quilt; play with her 2 rescue dogs and 2 rescue cats; and travel the world with her family.
Her favorite cities are Washington, D.C., Venice and Paris, in case you were wondering. She lives in Ohio with her husband and over- scheduled teenagers.
If you’d like to recommend a great book, share a recipe for homemade cake of any kind, or have a tip for getting your teens to do what you say the first time you say it, Ann would love to hear from you via Facebook AuthorAnnChristopher or through her Web site, www.AnnChristopher.com.
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