Josie Guerrero is focused on one thing: getting accepted into the prestigious art studies program within the Art School at the University of Southern Washington. With thirteen weeks to create her sophomore portfolio, she knows she can't afford any d...
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"Don't forget, I promised Halle we'd have dinner with her tonight —"
Micah cups my cheeks, tilting my head back to kiss me. Again. I shake my head as much as I can between his gentle hands, smiling against his lips when he pulls my bottom lip between his teeth. His tongue slides along my bottom lip playfully and I lick him back, grazing my teeth against his top lip. His body tenses the way it always does just before he's about to ravage me, body and soul, and while I'd usually be just as eager, I know this is a distraction from a conversation he really doesn't want to have.
As tempting as his lips are, the seed of anxiety that's been budding in my chest for the past few days is starting to ache. Falling from my tiptoes to my heels, I sigh, watching my breath cloud heavily between us.
"Seven-thirty. I know, Jos. I'll be there." His thumb caresses my cheek, his hands still cupping my face as he studies me. The smallest twitch of his brow is the only sign that he's clocked the anxiety I've been trying to hide all morning, but it's growing past the point of shoving down, and I can't pretend it's not there anymore.
I wrap my fingers around his wrists, indulging in his warmth. I trace the line of the braided thread on his right wrist, turning my head enough to kiss his palm. "It's just important that you're not late," I murmur against his skin.
Turning to meet his eyes, he swallows and I watch the movement of his throat.
This is the conversation we've been avoiding since the night he followed me into the maze and laid his heart out for me. I forgave him in that maze. I let the rain that soaked us to the bone wash away any doubt I'd harbored in the man standing in front of me. I held his heart in my hands, knowing full well that he already had mine in his.
We moved forward that night. Past the fallout.
But Halle didn't.
Halle, who doesn't trust Micah as far as she can throw him, can't seem to see Micah as anything other than a ticking time bomb superglued to my heart. And while she's trying, bless her she really is trying, to be civil and kind to him, I can see in her eyes that she's already counting down the days until he leaves me shattered. A mess of shards for her to put back together.
"Talk to me, Jo. What aren't you saying?" His hand slides down my cheek to my chin, tilting my head back again to meet his eyes, which flick between my own, trying to read me.
"I just want her to see you like I do," I whisper. "I want her to see you in technicolor, in every shade, not just the black and white you wear for everyone else. I want her to know you. I want...I want her to trust you."
Micah considers me for a moment. One, two, three heartbeats, and then he exhales slowly. "And that's important to you? For her to trust me?
My answer is immediate. "Yes."
His jaw flexes faintly at the sincerity in my voice — at my plea for him to do his best to bridge the mistrust spanning between them — and when his eyes meet mine, he nods.
