7. Things Change

THINGS CHANGE

R eece towers above me, all hard, rippling, powerful muscles glistening with sweat and beaded with shower spray. His long black hair is dampening and sticking to his neck and shoulders. The spray blasts against his back, droplets dotting my face.

His cock is fully erect and fucking enormous. I still can't believe I took this monster organ inside me—and not just that, but how incredible it felt once I got used to him.

I've never been a size queen. It just hasn't mattered. I've been with well-endowed men and those less blessed. The results have been the same.

Reece?

He made me come so hard I saw stars with nothing more than his mouth and fingers. And then, when we fucked, I came even harder— twice . I'm not sure he realizes I came twice. I'm still sore and shaky, and I know there's absolutely no way I can handle him again so soon.

Because his cock is in direct proportion to the rest of him—gigantic. I'm not great at visual measurements, but I'd guess at least six inches, if not eight. And thick —so thick. The girth of it is what gave me pause when I first grasped him. My fingers don't meet around him. And then, when I took him inside me, he split me apart, made me ache, made me burn—but god, it felt so good. He knew exactly what to do, giving me plenty of time to adjust, holding perfectly still. I could tell how much that cost him, how badly he wanted to move. And it wasn't until he started to come that he finally lost that iron control.

Now, it's my turn to shatter him, like he did me.

His hands dangle at his sides as he gazes down at me. "Lily, you—"

"If you tell me I don't have to," I warn him, "We're gonna have issues, honey. I want to. So just shut up and let me have my way with you."

He laughs, cock bobbing and jerking. "Okay, okay. Just…"

"Reece?" I interrupt. "Shut up, honey."

“Yes ma'am."

I twist both fists down his length, and he flexes into my touch. I look up at him, and his jaw is tight, eyes heavy-lidded. Good—he's already affected.

The tile is hard under my knees, but I barely feel it. Also, I doubt this will take very long. I don't want it to. I want to make him feel so fucking good he can't hold back. Because I know he was—out of concern for me. And honestly, it's probably good he did, as I'm not sure I’m quite up to taking him at full strength just yet.

I sit on my feet and stroke him hand-over-hand, faster and faster until he starts dipping at the knees, and then I wrap my fist around his thick root and pump slowly. Cup his taut, heavy balls and stroke. Caress. Pump.

He growls, groans. "Lily, fuck."

"Yeah?" I whisper. "You like it?"

"God, yes."

"Then you'll really like this." I sit up on my knees and take him into my mouth.

Good lord, he's just so damned big . I know I keep saying it, but it bears repeating. I can barely get the plump, round, pink head into my mouth. I don't even try for more.

"Ahhh, fuck, Lily. Fuck, fuck, fuck ."

His huge, powerful hands dig into my damp hair, scooping it up and piling it on my head in his hands.

One hand cupping and massaging his balls, I stroke his length with the other while bobbing down around his thick, pulsing head as far as I comfortably can.

"Lily, oh god. So good. Your mouth feels so fucking good."

His knees buckle, and he flexes his hips, driving himself between my lips. I feel his shaft throbbing as he slides through my lips, the veins stuttering, pulsing. I tease his balls with my fingertip, tickling, petting, gently squeezing, and his groans turn ragged.

He knots the wet mass of my hair in one hand on top of my head, bracing the other against the wall behind me as his knees buckle and dip with each helpless thrust.

"Oh fuck , Lily. I'm—I'm close."

"Mmmm-hmm?" I hum around him.

"I can't hold out much longer," he gasps.

"Mmm-mmm."

"Lily—Lilith…fuck. So beautiful, honey. So fucking gorgeous. So perfect." He throws his head back and groans long and loud, then, hand gently pressing on the back of my head. "I'm gonna come, Lily."

"Mmmmm," I moan, not at all faking the delight I feel as he starts to lose control, knees bent, torso hunched over me, hand braced on the wall over my head.

"Oh fuck, oh fuck," he gasps. "I'm coming—I'm coming, ohhhhhhmy god , Lily."

I taste him, then, taste our mingled essences on his shaft, licking away the bead of come on his tip. I flutter my tongue against him and massage his balls, feeling them pulse in my palm. Caress his hot, thick, heavy cock and take him in my mouth. He pulses between my lips and then thrusts, fucking helplessly, roaring, head thrown back, and then my mouth is flooded with his seed. Semi-sweet and slightly sour and salty, it fills my mouth. Again and again, and he groans and growls, hands in my hair, and I gulp it all down greedily, pumping him for more.

Eventually, he lets go with a ragged sigh, but I’m not done. I stroke him a few more times, tasting the last of his come.

I let him go, then, and he helps me to my feet. He twists us so I'm under the spray.

"Lily," he murmurs. "Dear god, honey."

He leans back against the wall, panting, staring at me with wonder in his eyes.

I just grin as I tip my head back and soak my hair. "Merry Christmas," I say, winking at him.

He laughs. "Merry Christmas, huh? Jesus ."

I snort as I lather my hair. "Kind of ironic moment to use that particular curse word."

"I wasn't expecting that," he says. "And I never will."

"I know. I have a weird relationship with giving oral." I rinse my hair and tug him beneath the spray while I work the conditioner in.

He scrubs shampoo into his hair, watching me. "What's that mean?"

I shrug. "It's highly dependent on the person I’m with. I've dated guys who expect it or have even outright demanded it."

Reece growls. "Dudes like that oughta be kicked in the nuts."

I laugh. "Agreed. I don't expect a man to go down on me. If he wants to, I'll accept it and enjoy it, even if I have zero expectations that it'll result in me coming—that's not his fault, I'm just difficult. But by the same token, I'm not going to drop to my knees just because you expect it." I look at him, watching him tip his head back to rinse the shampoo out; his muscles glisten and shift as he moves, and for a moment or two, I'm lost in pure female appreciation of his masculine glory. "But the other side of the coin is that if I surprise you with it because you're not expecting it, I do truly enjoy it."

He glances at me. "You do?"

I nod, soaping myself up and then handing the soap to him; we switch again so I can rinse. "Yeah. Your reactions were everything, Reece. It was fucking hot. I liked it. Making you feel so good you can't stand up? Makes a short girl feel about ten feet tall, you know?"

"I do know exactly how you feel," he says.

I close my eyes and rinse my hair; right when I'm about to open my eyes, I feel his hands curl around my buttocks, and then a giggling, shocked squeal bubbles out of me as I'm abruptly airborne. Reece lifts me effortlessly into the air, and my legs drape over his shoulders and his hands cup my ass and hold me aloft, the cold wet marble of the wall against my back, and then his mouth is fused to my pussy and I'm gasping as he lashes me with his tongue.

I brace one hand on the ceiling and the other on his head as he devours me, and I feel a climax blooming in my belly like a sunrise—slow at first and then all at once. I buck against his mouth, whimpering and shrieking as he brings me to the cusp and then drives me over the edge into a screaming orgasm—he doesn’t stop, even when the climax topples into a second and then a third, all just from his tongue.

Overwhelmed, tears streaming down my face, I gently push him away from me. "I can't take anymore, Reece. Put me down, please."

He sets me on my feet, holding onto me as my legs tremble, not quite able to support my weight. "So fucking beautiful when you come for me like that."

Panting, I rest my cheek on his wet hot chest. "I really don't know how you do that to me. What's your secret?"

"No secret."

I look up at him. "Reece, I've struggled with orgasming my whole life, ever since I discovered masturbation. I can count on one hand the times I've come during sex—and that's one finger, just now, with you. On my own, it takes forever. And usually, it feels like it's…I don't know how to put it. Not a full orgasm. I've tried everything, on my own and with partners. Toys. Gels. Meditation. I've even seen a sex therapist. Had doctors examine me. I just…can't. And then you come along and somehow you can just magically make me come—easily and multiple times in a row."

He looks down at me, expression gentle and tender. "Lily, I don't think it's me. I mean, yeah, I pay attention to how you respond and try to follow what you need in the moment. I've certainly never had any complaints that I don't know what I'm doing, but I also don't think I'm anything special. I think…" he trails off.

"You think what?"

"I think maybe it's just compatibility. Maybe you just trust me enough that you can truly relax into it for the first time.”

I laugh. "Meaning I'm uptight most of the time."

"I didn't say that."

"No, I did. And it's true. I'm a type-A personality. I like to be in control. But with you, I…yeah, I think you may be right. I guess I do trust you with my body in a way I don't think I have anyone else." I lift up on my toes and kiss him. "Which says less about me than it does about you."

"Having your trust means more than I can say." His voice is quiet but rife with emotion. "And I'll do anything to hold on to it."

The next couple of weeks are the most idyllic of my life.

Reece and I spend every moment together, and the wonder of that is that I don't get sick of him. He never annoys me. I never feel like I need space. Always in previous relationships, I've very quickly tired of their company. Little things build up and annoy me until I either break up with them or bury myself in work until they get the picture and stop trying to get a hold of me. It's usually little things, stupid things like the way he eats or stupid jokes or leaving his shoes in the entryway for me to trip on, or leaving the toilet seat up. Being clingy. Demanding sex when I'm tired and just want to veg out with a glass of wine and stupid reality TV.

Reece is endlessly attentive. He cooks for us, and we clean up together. He puts the seat down. He makes me laugh. He's affectionate without being clingy—sometimes, I want to be near him but not on top of him, and he gets it and doesn’t seem bothered by it. We both tend to get up early out of long habit, but he's always up before me and brings me coffee in bed, which is a minor act of service that turns me on to no end.

Almost as much as the cooking and cleaning does.

He’s just…incredible.

And yeah, the sex is endlessly mindblowing. He continues to be able to make me come and does so eagerly, ravenously, and tirelessly. We find a rhythm together. Our favorite time to have sex…fuck? Make love? I'm not sure how to frame it. I'm not sure what we are. I'm trying not to think about it. It’s in the morning, right after we wake up. I wake up on his chest, content and warm and happy and safe. I let my hand venture down to the promised land and invariably find him hard and ready. He lets me play with him for a while, sometimes even with my mouth, before hauling me on top of him. He slides inside me and we find our rhythm and we come together—he always makes sure I come first, hard, and usually multiple times.

Which has caused me to develop a new fear: how can I ever have sex with anyone else, now? Who else could ever make me feel the way he does? I haven’t voiced this to him, and I’m not sure how to, but it's a thought that's percolated in my head pretty constantly over the last few weeks.

The weather hasn't snapped. It's still unseasonably cold for Georgia, even in the mountains, and the snow has stuck. Our days are spent in the main cabin—after the first four days of him running over to the workshop to grab things, I told him to just bring his stuff over here. We watch TV and read books in companionable silence, my feet on his lap, the fire roaring. We wrap up in blankets and sip coffee on the porch, watching the geese slip and slide on the frozen lake as hard little flakes of snow swirl in the frigid air.

We’re only a week from Christmas when Reece comes in from chopping wood, covered in a dusting of snow. He sets his armload of split logs down in the rack, dusts himself off, and glances at me. "Hey there, gorgeous. Get dressed. We're going on a field trip."

I stare at him from across the top of my book. "A field trip? Where?"

He just grins. "You'll see."

Reluctantly, since I’m cozy under a blanket and enjoying my book, I put on jeans, a thick sweater, wool socks, boots, and my coat and hat, stuffing my gloves in my coat pockets, and follow him outside. His big black truck is idling, and when he hands me up into the cab, it's toasty warm, the seat heater warming the leather under my butt.

I resist the urge to pester him about where he's taking me—I have a feeling he won't answer, and I'm trying to turn a new leaf, laying down my need for control and just trusting him.

Ten minutes down the road, he grins at me. "You want to know so fucking bad, don't you, honey?"

I slam my head against the headrest. "Like crazy, Reece. I'm not good with surprises, but I'm trying to just go with the flow."

He takes my hand. "I appreciate the trust, Lily. I know that's hard for you."

"Trust is hard for me. Trusting you is not."

He squeezes my hand. "Makes me feel like a new man, hearing that. Truly."

I smile at him. "You've earned it. You take care of me. You listen. You're sweet, you're gentle, and you’re sexy as hell."

He blows out a sigh. "You're a miracle, Lilith."

I roll my eyes. "I don't know about all that."

"I do." He twists the volume knob and finds a satellite radio station—Christmas music. "Here's a hint, babe—’tis the season."

Hope blossoms in my chest. "A tree?"

His grin widens. "That's the plan. According to the almighty Google, there's a place down the road where you can cut your own tree. I’ve always thought that sounded like fun.”

"I've never had a real tree," I say. "My parents always had a fake one—my mom was too much of a perfectionist and my dad wasn’t the type to go through all the hassle of a real one. I've always wanted a real one, though."

"Well, that's something else we have in common, then," he says.

"You've never had a real one either?" I ask.

He shakes his head. "Nah. Growing up, there wasn't time or money for one. We had this shitty little fake white thing, a sad little Charlie Brown-lookin' thing. We had, like, ten ornaments. Mom saved half the year to get us each one thing, and it was usually new shoes because we both grew out of them so fast."

My heart breaks for him. "Reece," I whisper.

He shrugs. "Obviously, I couldn’t exactly go hauling a ten-foot spruce into my dorm at U-T, and then when I moved to LA, I lived out of my car for the first year."

I blink at him. "Wait, what?"

He nods. "I've given interviews about it. I bought a minivan before I left Tennessee and lived out of it while working construction. I got a membership to the YMCA near the Walmart I would park in, and I'd work out and use their showers before work. Eventually, I was able to save for a deposit on a place."

"I googled you, but not that deeply," I say. "How'd you get into acting?"

"By accident. I got hired by this guy I met at a coffee shop. He owned a renovation company specializing in high-end kitchens. He did most of his work in Beverly Hills and Orange County and whatever. Did a lot of celebrity homes. Well, after a few months of working for him, he started to trust me, and he'd leave me to work on my own while he checked on other jobs. Eventually, he made me a supervisor. We got this job doing a kitchen for a producer. I didn't know it at the time, but she was a pretty big name in the industry.

"I was there alone, finishing the backsplash. It was a scorcher of a day, and I'd been working since six in the morning trying to finish the tile so the guys could wrap it up. It was late, like seven or eight, and the owner came home to check on things. I'd been told she was out of town for work and wouldn't be home for another week, so I had my shirt off while I cleaned up my stuff and loaded my tools."

I grin. "Ohhh man—Reece Morgan, shirtless, wearing a toolbelt? Every woman's fantasy."

“Yeah, okay.” He snorts. "She took one look at me and asked if I’d ever read for a role. I said no, and she handed me a script from her bag, told me to read the highlighted lines and try to put some feeling into it." A shrug. "I'm no dummy—I knew an opportunity when I saw one. I was half-expecting the script to be for porn based on the way she was looking at me."

My eyebrows lift. "Was it?"

An amused guffaw follows this question. "Hell no. And no, I've never done it, either. Been offered, but no. I have done a few bare-ass scenes, but that's it." He glances at me. "Also, I have never slept with anyone to get a role. And yes, that does happen. More so for women, obviously, but I've known plenty of aspiring male actors who've slept their way to bigger roles. No judgment, but it's just not how I am."

"What was the role? Did you get it?"

"It was my first role, yeah. A character named Mace. A henchman for a villain in a made-for-streaming action flick. It paid shit, and it wasn’t a very good movie at all, but it was a start. And I enjoyed the process. It was fascinating to me watching the real actors, as I saw them at the time, do their scenes. I booked a few more roles, mostly bit parts. Did a few commercials. Eventually, I got my big break in Atlas , and that got me the bigger roles. A few decent parts, and I was able to quit construction and act full-time. I never looked back."

We pass through the little town, then, and it's quaint and adorable, with Christmas lights strung on the buildings and everything capped with snow. I find myself longing to stroll down the main street with Reece, hand in hand, as fat flakes of snow float lazily in the air.

Instead, we pass through and go another few miles. A sign announces Morty's Christmas Tree Farm, two miles. Reece follows another sign pointing off the main road, and we trundle and bump down a dirt road covered in a thick layer of wet snow. On either side, conifer trees of various types grow in serried ranks, each row taller than the last, until we reach an area where they stand six feet tall and more. A wide grass parking lot marked off with orange cones and yellow rope opens up at the end of the lane. Several cars are parked in the lot, and a small shed stands off to one side, smoke coiling up from a little metal pipe; within, customers pay for their trees and sip beverages from Styrofoam cups. A young couple with a toddler bundled in a puffy purple snowsuit stands by a tree, assessing it. A family—father, mother, and two teenage boys—stroll down an aisle between rows, the boys shoving each other and laughing.

Reece hops down and circles to my side, opening the door before I can. He reaches in and lifts me out.

"Reece, I do know how to get out of the car on my own," I tell him, tugging on my hat and gloves.

He flips up the collar of his shearling coat, tucking my hand around his arm. "I know. I just like the excuse to cop a feel."

"Ah yes, ribcages, so sexy," I quip.

"Welcome to Morty’s,” a voice says, and we turn to greet the speaker, a middle-aged man with rosy cheeks, a buffalo plaid hat with ear flaps down over his ears, and an eager smile. He has a saw in one hand, which he extends to Reece. “I’m Morty, glad you could join us! Smaller trees are toward the road, bigger ones the other way. We have a few pre-cut ones over there by the shed, red-tagged—half the price of the standing ones. Other than that, browse our selection, have fun, and Merry Christmas! Oh, and we also have coffee and hot chocolate in the shed. Have fun, kids!”

Reece takes the saw, thanks the man, and we head for the larger trees—the ceilings in the cabin are decently high, so we can get at least a six-foot tree.

Soon, we're all but lost in the endless rows of trees, the scent of sap and pine needles all around, snow flurrying.

"Is it ridiculous of me to be this excited?" I say, stopping to assess a seven-foot fir. My cheeks already hurt from smiling…and from the cold.

Reece grins at me. "If it is, then we're both ridiculous because I feel like a kid in a candy store right now." He points at a giant tree, eight feet tall, fat and thick and round. "How about that one?"

I laugh. "It'd take up half the cabin, Reece."

"True. I tend to go overboard sometimes, so you'll have to rein me in."

I cackle. "You? Overboard? No!"

He swats my ass playfully, and I shove him between trees. He lets me feel like I actually moved him by pretending to stumble backward rather dramatically, which makes me laugh. I mean, I could probably take a running start and flying tackle him and only bounce off. I'd probably dislocate something in the process.

He snags my wrist and hauls me in between the trees, palms my ass in both hands, and kisses me breathless.

"Mommy? Why is he eating her face?" A little voice says. "And why is touching her no-no place?"

I startle and spin around—a little girl no more than four or five is a few feet away, eyes wide. Her mother opens her mouth and closes it a few times, unable to come up with an explanation. Her father scoops her up. “They’re kissing, just like you've seen Daddy kissing Mommy, Rachel. That's all."

"But he was touching her bottom ,” the little girl stage-whispers. "That's yucky."

“Yeah, well, adults are weird," he mutters, glancing at us apologetically.

"Sorry," Reece says. "We, uh, got carried away."

The father shrugs but hustles his wife and daughter down the aisle.

I whirl on Reece, poking him. "Good job," I tease, "You traumatized that little girl."

He laughs. "Affection—so traumatizing."

"You were touching my no-no zone."

"I'll show you a no-no zone," he growls, pulling me deeper in between the trees.

I resist, tugging him back to the aisle. "You already did that this morning, Reece. Twice. Now, be good. I don't want to get kicked out before we pick a tree."

He allows me to pull him down the aisle, and we go back to the tree selection process. After another ten or fifteen minutes of searching, we find the perfect one, seven feet tall, with dense, even branches and no big empty spots, tall and straight and symmetrical. Reece cuts it down and hauls it to the shack, where they wrap it tightly in netting. He pays for it, secures it in his truck bed with a few wide yellow ratchet straps he procured from beneath the back bench of his truck, and then it's back in the truck and on the road again.

Instead of heading back to the cabin, however, he goes the other way. Within minutes, the cab is toasty again and filled with Christmas carols—we both sing along. Reece has a truly awful singing voice, but it only makes me laugh, because so do I. After another twenty minutes of driving, we come to a town a good bit bigger than the one closest to the cabin; he pulls into the parking lot of Target.

Since he seems to get some kind of enjoyment out of it, I wait for him to open the door and lift me out. And, to be honest, I like it too. I like his strong hands on my waist. I like feeling small and safe. I like the way he looks at me he sets me on my feet.

We're almost to the doors when a thought occurs to me. "Reece? Are you sure we should be here?”

He frowns at me. "How else are we gonna get lights and shit for the tree?"

"Well, right, but…" I gesture at him. "You're…you know…you."

"Oh, that." He waves the idea off. "I'm not Brad Pitt, babe. Most people have no fuckin' clue who I am. I go shopping in LA all the time."

"Okay. But this isn't LA. It's a small mountain town in Georgia."

"Exactly. They're even less likely to know me."

“Or more likely. They probably never get famous people here."

He just laughs. "I barely count as famous. I get looks sometimes, but it's a look of, ‘Huh, I recognize that guy from somewhere.’ And by the time they figure it out, I'm gone."

I tangle my fingers with his as we enter the store. At first, shopping with Reece is fun. We peruse the now mostly bare Christmas section, picking out a few boxes of colorful twinkle lights and boxes of ornaments. Reece pushes the cart, which for some reason strikes me as funny and cute—he's so big he makes it look like a toy. A couple of times, as we pass other shoppers, he literally picks the cart up and moves it over instead of directing it on the wheels. The second time he does this, I snicker.

"What?" He says, glancing at me.

"Nothing," I say.

"Why are you laughing at me?"

I point at the cart. "Just you. You're funny. It's easier to just pick the whole damn thing up than move it over?"

He shrugs. "Well…yeah, I guess."

"I'm not sure why it strikes me as funny, but it does."

Trouble starts when I request a detour to the makeup area—I need a few items. He shrugs and follows me into the open area, waiting patiently while I peruse the MAC and ELF selections for what I need.

"Um, excuse me?" A female voice has me turning around. "Are you Reece Morgan?"

A cluster of girls in their late teens or early twenties has Reece surrounded, phones out.

"Uhhh, yeah." He's leaning over the cart, forearms on the handlebar, looking nervous.

"Can we get a selfie?" The speaker is young and pretty, batting her eyelashes at him and sidling close.

"Yeah, I guess."

He steps away from the cart and dips at the knees, shoving his hands in his coat pockets while the girls all hang off of him.

Jealousy ignites inside me like wildfire. A voice inside me is shouting HE'S MINE, HANDS OFF! Before I know what I'm doing, I find myself hustling over to the cart, tossing my makeup selections in, and then turning to Reece.

"Hey, honey," I say. "You ready?"

The girls all shoot nasty looks at me. "Who're you ?" One of them says to me, voice snarky. "Reece Morgan is not married. He just got a divorce. I saw the article.”

"Well, there's this thing called dating , sweetheart," I snap.

"Lily," Reece murmurs. "It's okay. I don't mind taking a few photographs."

Since when do I have an eye twitch? I'm not sure, but my left eye is twitching. Is jealousy supposed to feel like I want to strangle this bitch for touching my man?

And… my man ? Since when do I think like that? Since never. Except now, apparently.

As if to rub it in, each of the six girls—all of whom seem to be wearing a uniform of Uggs, black yoga pants, plain-color hoodies, and a vest, with a slouchy winter hat and crossbody sling-bags—want individual selfies.

By the time Reece manages to extricate himself from them, a small crowd has gathered, mainly out of curiosity. I hear a few murmurs of recognition. There's whispering, pointing, people looking at their phones, and then at Reece.

He's starting to look green around the gills and a little panicky. Especially when a couple of middle-aged women push through the crowd, phones out, demanding selfies and autographs as if he owes them something. They put their hands all over him when they pose with him, and it takes all the self-control I have to not snap at them, or march over and start breaking fingers.

God, why is this bothering me so much? It shouldn't. We aren't even dating. Are we? What even is this? A fling? We haven’t discussed it. We haven't talked about what happens when Nathan and Nadia come back.

The two middle-aged women seem to have opened a floodgate, then, as more people—women, mostly—crowd around, shoving ballcaps and receipts and phone cases and pens and Sharpies at him. He looks overwhelmed, his smile forced.

Pretty soon, the aisle outside the makeup section is clogged with customers, cell phones are held up, and people are pushing and shouting.

Eventually, several red-shirted Target employees arrive and try to break it up, but no one listens to them.

He catches my eye and mouths " GO! ” at me. I shake my head. I'm not leaving him alone with the wolves. But I don't know what to do, how to help him. When does it stop? The crowd keeps growing as more and more shoppers see the commotion and come over to check it out. I can tell he's starting to get upset, though—his smile is more and more forced, tension lines carve grooves on his forehead, and his jaw muscle is ticking. Something has to change, and now , or he’s gonna pop. I can’t let that happen.

When a thirty-something woman with big hair, knee-high boots, and a low-cut top smooshes her tits against his chest and all but grabs his ass as he bends to get in the frame with her, I decide I've had enough.

" Okay !” I announce loudly. "That's enough !” I march over to Reece and push between him and the woman. "Get your tits out of my boyfriend's face. Reece, we're leaving. Now ."

I grab the cart and start pushing, unapologetically clipping several ankles. "Move!”

Pushing the cart one-handed, I grab Reece's wrist the other and haul him after me. For a moment, he just follows as if in a daze, but then he comes alive and wraps his huge body behind mine, shoving the cart ahead of us.

"Thank you, everyone," he says in a booming voice. "No more photographs, please. Thanks."

The crowd finally catches on and parts, allowing us through, but they follow after us, still snapping pictures of us, others recording videos.

We all but run, then, abandoning the cart full of Christmas supplies at the door. Reece's long legs eat up twice the distance that mine do, and I have to jog to keep up until we reach his huge black truck with its tinted windows.

He jerks open the passenger door, lifts me in, slams the door shut, and climbs in.

For a few moments, neither of us says anything.

I swallow hard. "Reece, I'm sorry."

He frowns at me. "What the fuck are you sorry for? You warned me. I just…" he wipes his face with a hand, then scrapes his hat off and runs his hand through his hair. "That's never happened before."

"In LA, celebrities are a dime a dozen, right? The only people who care are the paparazzi." I reach out to take his hand—his is shaking.

"I'm not famous enough for the paparazzi to care about me unless I’m throwing tables across Rodeo Drive." He shakes his head again. "Fuck. That was rough."

"I'm worried I made things harder for you," I say. "I just…I got jealous. I didn't like how they were touching you. That one lady especially."

He won't look at me. "You're out there now, Lilith. Videos are going to circulate."

"I'm no one," I say.

"Not anymore. Now you're my girlfriend, like it or not. The whole world is going to speculate."

"Like it or not?" I ask. "What does that mean?"

"Just…" he closes his eyes, resting his head against the seat. "You attached yourself, publicly, to me. To my reputation. To a man who's as famous for my public explosions as I am acting. They're gonna dig into your life. Ask you questions. ‘Does he hit you? Are you scared of him?’”

"Reece—"

"And we don't have the lights or ornaments."

He sounds…sad. Pissed off at himself, as if he did something wrong.

I turn his hand over and place my palm on his. "Hey, Reece, listen to me."

"Yeah." He doesn’t look at me.

"Reece."

"What?" He shakes his head but opens his eyes and looks at me. "I shouldn't have put you in that situation, Lily.”

I cup his jaw. "I can handle questions, Reece. I'm a lawyer—questions are what I do. It's okay. I promise. I…I'm sorry I got jealous."

He snorts. “You keep apologizing." His deep, troubled brown eyes meet mine. "If you want the truth, I kinda like that you did. Viv was never jealous, except when the attention was on me instead of her. But that’s a different kind of jealousy. I got recognized a few times—never anything like that, just a couple people here and there, and she always tried to make it about her. She’d get in the selfies with me. Shit like that. She never cared when women would treat me like meat like that."

"I care." I bite my lip and lose the battle to not ask the questions foremost on my mind. "Reece…am I your girlfriend? I just said that to get them to back off. But…I don't know…I don’t know what this is. I don't need to put a label on it—I'm not trying to put you on the spot. I just…I'm sorry if I made things harder for you."

"Why are you worried about me?" he asks. "I can handle the stupid shit they say about me. You never asked to be famous. You didn't sign up for it." He turns his gaze on me. "I want you to be my girlfriend. I don't know how it'd work, though. I don't know what I'm gonna do, or if I'll ever work in Hollywood again. I even want to. Your life is in Atlanta."

"We don't need to figure this out now, Reece," I whisper. "Let’s just go."

He looks in the rearview mirror at the tree. "Stupid. I just…I thought we could have a little Christmas. I dunno. I thought it'd be fun. I'm sorry it got messed up."

"Nothing is messed up." I point at the hat on his thigh. "Give me your hat."

He frowns. "My hat?" he hands it to me even as he questions it. "What's your plan?"

I shrug, shouldering my purse and pulling the hat on over my hair. "I'm not famous. Just wait here."

I don't wait for his response, slamming the door closed and marching somewhat pissily back into Target. The cart is where we left it, a Target employee preparing to put the things back.

"That's my stuff," I tell the young male employee. "I forgot my wallet in the car."

He gives me a long look. "Aren't you the lady who—"

I cut him off. "Yeah. But look, I just want my stuff, okay? I'm just gonna check out and go."

He shrugs. "Sure, whatever, lady." He looks around surreptitiously. "Never saw a famous person before. He's even bigger in real life."

I laugh. "Right?" I push the cart toward the checkout lanes. "Well, thanks."

His walkie-talkie squawks, and he answers it, hustling off to some other part of the store. Instead of checking out, though, I decide to make a quick detour. I add a few more decorations, a few rolls of cookie dough, a bottle of rum, and some eggnog, and then, on a whim, a couple of items as a present for him.

He's quiet on the ride back—it's tempting to think "on the ride home,” but the cabin isn't home.

My home is flooded and under construction. Odd, though—I haven't thought about work or my condo once since I arrived.

The truck off, Reece doesn't get out, so I wait.

"I need a few minutes," he says. "I need to think."

My stomach sinks. "Alright."

He smiles at me, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. "It's all good, Lily. I just need a quick workout. I need to burn off the tension."

"I can think of a few other ways to burn it off," I say, wiggling my eyebrows at him.

He doesn't laugh. "I'm struggling with anger, Lily. I won't allow that anywhere near you. Especially not like that."

"Reece, "I start.

"I'm not mad at you. You're the best thing that's ever happened to me. It's just…" he groans, scrubbing his face. "I just need a few minutes."

"You don't have to struggle alone, though, okay?" I climb over the console and wedge myself between him and the steering wheel. "Your anger doesn’t scare me. You don't scare me. I can handle it, Reece. Whatever it is, whatever it looks like."

"You haven't seen it."

I nuzzle his jaw. "Don't need to. I know you'd never, ever let your anger harm me." I sit facing him, straddling him. "If you need some time alone to throw around those big metal kettleballs or whatever they are, go for it. Take as long as you need. Just please, please, honey—understand that you're not alone in this anymore. I don't need a label and I don't need any promises. I hope you understand that I trust you, but Reece, baby, it goes both ways. You gotta trust me, too. And you can."

He swallows hard. "I know. I do. Or, I'm trying." His huge hand covers the side of my face, tugs on the brim of the hat I'm still wearing. "You look cute in my hat."

"I'd look even cuter in just the hat."

"Anyone ever tell you how fucking amazing you are, Lilith Thompson?"

I shake my head. "Not very often, no."

"Well then, I’ll have to start rectifying that. Lily, you are amazing. I don't know what I did to deserve to have you in my life, but I'm not taking it for granted."

I wrap my arms around the dense column of his neck and bury my nose in his throat, where his pulse thrums against my lips. "Get your workout in," I whisper.

He pulls back, hands on my hips, eyes searching my face for something. "Too fucking perfect."

I shake my head. "You're silly."

I slide off of him, crawl back over the console, and get out of the truck; I gather the bags out of the back seat and take them inside.

I wrap his two little gifts, and I can't help feeling like something has changed.