Chapter 27

27

B lood red flashes before my eyes as an ice-cold hand drags down my spine making my insides freeze over, and a plume of vapor escape my lips. I feel him behind me, and I can't make my legs move. I'm paralyzed, and he knows it. He's practically gleeful with it. That hand starts to snake around me, going up and up, and just before it wraps around my throat, he whispers, "You thought I was gone, but I always see you, Tinsley."

"Tinsley." My name grows louder. More urgent. And I'm fighting it. Fighting him . "Open your eyes, little Rose. You're having a bad dream."

My eyes snap open, and I swallow the scream still trapped in the dream. Jerking upright, my head whips around until my eyes land on Stone's worried and cautious ones. My chest is heaving, my heart pounding, and I place my hand over it, hoping to slow it down.

"Hey," he says softly, his hand cupping my face. "It's okay. It was just a dream."

I nod, but it doesn't help. My emotions are too big right now— a twisted, tangled ball so mashed together that I can't seem to separate one feeling from the other.

One hand slides under my thighs, the other around my back, and he lifts me, pulling me sideways onto his lap and tucking me in against his bare chest. I close my eyes but it's like I can still feel the remnants of the dream clinging to me. I shudder and he shifts, moving beneath my covers and wrapping my blankets around us. He leans back against the headboard and slides down so he's mostly supine, taking me with him.

"Your heart is racing," I mumble, almost absently.

"I heard you scream. Clear across the apartment, I heard you. I don't think I've ever run that fast or been that scared in my life."

I draw circles on his chest, chasing the patterns the ink makes. Anything to distract me from the curling end of the adrenaline and the fuzzy images sticking to the front of my mind. So far, no one has anything useful on who sent me the letters. It could all be nothing. Or it could be a lot of something. No one knows. It was likely just some asshole who thought he'd be funny and scare me.

But why? And the wording in the letters doesn't feel that way.

"It's been a long time since I've had a nightmare like that. It felt so real. Like he was here right behind me."

He holds me tighter, his lips pressing on my hairline against my forehead. "He'll never touch you. Not ever." He runs his hand down my hair and shifts us some more until he's completely on his back. His tenderness and ferocity tether me tighter to him as if I'm held by a string. "I promise, baby girl. It was a dream, and I'll never let it be anything more than that."

I gulp and nod. "Neither will I."

He kisses my head again. "Go back to sleep. I've got you."

"Stone, you don't have?— "

"I'm not leaving you, so close your eyes and go back to sleep."

Ending the argument there, his arms completely encircle me, becoming a fortress surrounding me. It would be easy to lift my head a little and kiss his neck or aim a bit higher for his lips. I could even slip down his body and take his thick cock—something I can feel isn't oblivious to our position—in my mouth. That would chase the rest of this away.

He's good at mental diversions.

Instead, I stay put.

I have no idea how I'm going to fall back to sleep. Not only am I overloaded with the remaining adrenaline in my veins, but I'm lying in only a tank top and sleep shorts on top of Stone, who is only in boxer briefs. It doesn't take more than a half second before all that edgy adrenaline turns to heat and hunger, and I find my finger swirling along his ink once more like I did once upon a time. His ring on my finger glints in the burnished light, and that weird, nervous flutter I get every time I look at it hits me.

The only time I ever take it off is when I shower or I'm on set. I tell myself it's keeping up the fake engagement. Making it real for anyone who watches us. But I know that's not the full explanation for it, even if I don't allow myself to delve deeper into it.

He exhales slowly, thickly. Maybe he's thinking about the night when I asked him to take my mind off the storm and he did. Obviously, that's what I'm thinking about. My gaze casts over to the window, the shades and curtains closed, but I can just make out a sliver of glass, and with that, a hint of small white flakes bustling past.

"Is it snowing?"

"It started just before I went to bed."

If the weather people were right and this stays as snow and ice, there's a chance I'll be stuck here in this apartment with him for at least a day or two.

"Did you mean it?" I ask, and my teeth sink into my bottom lip and my eyes snap closed. The question slipped out, and I immediately regret it.

"I meant it," he answers before I can retract it, and it's aggravating that he knew what I was asking him when there was no context to it. The condoms. The women. Or should I say the lack thereof.

I want to ask him what I'm supposed to do with that, but the words thankfully glue themselves to my tongue. I don't know what I want his answer to be, and it could only go two ways. It means nothing and we stay in this weird, in-between space we exist in. Or it means everything. It means rolling over on top of him and kissing him. It means doing this. For real. Me being his and him being mine.

It's a fantasy I've had on more than a hundred occasions over the last two years.

I don't fit as well with anyone as I do with him.

But our situation is unchanged.

I'm leaving in a couple of months, and I'm still his brother's ex and therefore, untouchable. Or at least undatable. I nearly laugh out loud. How could we date? That's such a ridiculous notion. We can't date. I'm his fake fiancée. His brother's ex. There is no dating with that. No taking it slow or seeing how it goes. No happily ever after or falling in love for real.

If something happened between us now, I'd fall in love with him.

That would be one hundred percent certain because I'm about ninety-three point six percent positive I was almost there the last time, and that was only ten days. These months, he'd not only own my heart but all of me, and I wouldn't be able to let him go. Not for Forest. Not for the world or my career. Not for anything .

It's why I've avoided him these weeks and had avoidance in every slot on my bingo card for this fake engagement.

Eventually, I'm lulled into sleep aided by the comfort of his slow, even breaths and strong body holding mine.

But right before I'm good and asleep, I hear him murmur so softly I'm not even positive I hear him right. "There is no one else for me but you."

I wake to blinding white and my alarm blaring, both so much more painful than sunlight on a hangover, and I groan in protest. Shutting off my alarm, I flop back over, but that sliver of open shades and curtains bleeds directly into my eyes, and I squint and roll over the other way, only to snap upright and look around the room. I didn't dream Stone coming in and holding me, right?

No. But I should still take the fact that Stone is gone as a gift.

I snatch my phone from my bedside table and see a myriad of texts. The first few are from the studio as well as the producers and directors confirming that they've shut down filming for the next two days due to the weather. Loomis is the next, telling me that he's obsessed with the snow and plans to stay inside, sit by the gas fireplace he has, and watch streaming television. He did say he'd be around if I needed an escape and wanted to go over.

Here's hoping I don't.

I drag myself out of bed, do my thing in the bathroom, and head out toward the kitchen in search of some much-needed coffee. Most of the lights are off, and the gunmetal gloom of the sky and the white of what should be the skyline and the park through the floor-to-ceiling windows make the apartment feel cozy and intimate. Small, icy-looking flakes fall fast and hard, and I can see there's already a good buildup of snow on the ground.

Stone has a couple of fireplaces. One wood, the other open gas, and I might take advantage of the day off with a book, a cup of something chocolatey—with alcohol—and silence.

Speaking of silence, I give a hearty listen, my ears searching as I hover between the great room, dining room, and kitchen. From this angle, I can't see into the kitchen and I'm afraid if I move left or right, if he's in there, I'll be caught. Am I being childish? You bet I am. Except immediately, I catch the scent of something yummy cooking and him moving around the kitchen.

Silently, like the coward I totally am, I lift my foot off the ground to take a step back when he calls out, "I'm making you an egg white omelet with spinach, mushrooms, tomatoes, and goat cheese. I also have turkey bacon."

Damn him.

"Now get your ass in this kitchen before I make you eat carbs."

I moan.

Whether it's from his bossy tone or the thought of carbs is anyone's guess.

"I might have dough hidden in the freezer I can make croissants with."

Double damn him. Croissants are my oysters. Aphrodisiacs that get me all hot and turned on, and he knows it. Especially when they come with?—

"I also have raspberry preserves."

And that's it. I'm done for.

I've been good for like two weeks straight. I can eat a croissant or three.

"Talking dirty to me like that might make me sit on your face, but I can't promise you'll get any pleasure from it," I quip, playing on what he said to me that night on the boat when all this started between us. Why did I say that?

I slam my lips shut as I enter the kitchen and find his back to me and him wearing low-slung black joggers and a tight white T-shirt. The soft kind. The kind that makes you want to go up to him and pet or nuzzle him the way Doe is. However, I think Doe's nuzzling is based more on the cooked turkey bacon Stone is dropping for her and less on the texture and sexiness of his pants and shirt.

His head rolls over his shoulder and he grins at me. "Baby girl, anytime you want to sit on my face just tell me to lie down. But I think we both know there will be pleasure in it for both of us."

Fuck. I might have just come a little. It can't be helped. It's the bad boy tattoos, the sexy, sleep-mussed hair, the cocky smirk with devilish green eyes, and the man talking dirty as he cooks while feeding a cat.

"You always this sweet to your pussy?"

"She's the only pussy in this house who will let me pet her."

I shouldn't have gone there, and I shake my head, holding up my hand to let him know I don't want to keep this going. We do sexual banter like high school kids, and it's bad stuff.

Opening the freezer, he pulls out the pastry dough and sets it on the counter to thaw, and when he turns, my nipples harden.

"You're wearing an apron."

He hardly skips a beat, pouring a mug of coffee and sliding it over to me. I take a sip only to choke on it and burn my tongue when I read what his apron says.

"I like my butt rubbed and my pork pulled."

He winks at me and turns to pour the egg mixture into the sizzling pan. "I already know you do, little Rose, but let's eat breakfast first before I treat you to dessert."

I hover on the far end of the island, taking another sip because I feel like I need a minute with this Stone. The one who's playful and too sexy for anyone's sanity as he cooks and flirts. Asshole, gruff, dominating Stone I can wrap my head around. This version kills me.

"I didn't take you for the funny apron guy."

"Mason gave it to me for my birthday last year," he explains, moving the eggs around in the pan. "I have another one that says My meat is 100% going in your mouth ."

"Oh god!" I laugh, only to choke on my coffee again, forcing myself to swallow it down so I don't spray it everywhere. "That wasn't fair or nice."

"I never said I'd be either with you." The way his voice drops makes my skin hum and blush. I hide it behind my mug, only to realize I've finished my coffee far too fast and need a refill. "How are you feeling this morning?" He holds up the carafe as if he knows my every freaking inner thought, and I come over to him, allowing him to refill my mug while he continues to make us breakfast.

I love that Stone cooks, but more so, I love how he doesn't do it to show off or impress. Yet another stupidly sexy thing about him. I hop up on the island counter on the other side from the gas range he's working at. If I straighten my legs, I could kick his ass—literally—but instead I settle for swinging them back and forth.

"Good. Better. Thank you for, well, everything."

He plates up the huge omelet and cuts it in half, giving me one half and taking the other. A couple of slices of turkey bacon are dropped on my plate, and he slides it to me. He joins me at the island, standing beside me while I sit, and we eat in silence for a moment.

I've been trying to remember what he said to me last night before I fell asleep. It's right there on the edge of my brain but just out of reach. He's doing all this and it's so much. The fake engagement and living here so he can keep me safe and the ring that's so beautiful I both love and hate it. Then there's the other stuff, like the cooking and making sure I've eaten and driving out to Cambridge after he's worked all day because I was hurt and the holding me all night after I had a nightmare.

I've been trying not to think about the stalker much, but clearly, it's weighing on my mind and coming out through my dreams. But right now, here, with him, with the snow falling outside in heavy droves, I feel safe. But it's more than that. So much more. And I don't know what to do about it.

I'm a mass of contradictions.

I pick up a piece of bacon and start munching on it. Stone checks something on his phone and it's all so normal.

"This is really good. Thank you."

He nods. That's it.

"I can make dinner tonight."

He grins wryly and looks up from his phone, his green eyes twin emeralds as they sparkle at me. "I was thinking we could go on a date tonight."

"What?" I sputter, my fork clanking on my plate. "Why on earth would we do that?"

"Because it's snowy out, which will hopefully keep the press at bay, but there will be enough people out to take pictures of us. A lot of the extra press on us has been because no one has seen us together since outside the hospital."

"Stone."

"Tinsley," he mocks my tone. "What's the big deal if we go out and have dinner together versus having it here?" He picks up my hand and starts playing with my ring.

"Because you called it a date and not dinner, and we'll need to touch and smile and look like we're in love."

It's what I've been avoiding. I feel like it'll look real because it might be. I want to touch him. I want to walk on his arm. I want to lean over and kiss his cheek or lips. I want to go on a date with him. And I want it to be real when it's not, and because of that, I don't want to do it.

"I think we can manage that," he says dryly, and he shifts until he's standing between my thighs, his hands on either side of me. He slides my plate away to give himself room to cage me in. His lips ghost over mine, close, but not touching. "We can say it's not real, that everything between us is fake, but we both know the truth."

That's when his words from last night hit me. There is no one else for me but you.

Before I can reply, his lips skim mine and float over to my ear. "I want to take my fiancée out for dinner tonight. Think about it."

With that, he walks out of the kitchen, leaving me reeling and rife with indecision.