Christmas in Connecticut: A Second Chance Holiday Romance by Jasinda Wilder

Author:Jasinda Wilder [Wilder, Jasinda]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Jasinda Wilder
Published: 2021-11-29T18:30:00+00:00

Chapter 11

By the time Rory emerges from Riley’s room, I have my bra and underwear on.

“You’re leaving?” he asks.

I hold my dress in my hands. “Yeah. I think it’s best, don’t you?”

He sighs. “I mean, I don’t like it.” His hair is wild and messy, tangled around his eyes and ears and sticking to his beard. “You leaving right now, this soon after we were together, it just feels…too casual. And that’s not what this is for me and it’s not what I want—it’s not how I want things to go.”

“I know, Rory. But Riley…” I twist the dress in my hands. “Are you ready for her to see us together? For me to be here when she wakes up?”

He stabs his fingers into his hair, swiping it backward. “I mean, it doesn’t feel like an exaggeration to say she loves you.”

“And I love her back. I do. But…that isn’t really what I asked.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “No,” he whispers. “I don’t think I’m quite ready for her to see us like that just yet.”

My head is winning. The heat of passion is subsiding and all the fears and ingrained panic and doubts are swarming back up. Was this a mistake? Did we just complicate this nascent thing between us?

“I should go,” I murmur.

Rory must have a sixth sense. Or an ability to read me more accurately than I’d thought possible.

“Em.”

I duck my head. Shake it. “I need to go, Rory.”

He crosses the room. His hands go around my hips and hold me, forehead touching mine. “Emma. Am I wrong in feeling like you’re starting to freak out?”

I huff a laugh. Shake my head. “No, you’re not wrong.”

“Why? What are you freaking out about?”

I blink hard. “Everything.”

“Talk to me, Em.”

I roll a shoulder. “It’s just my stupid brain.”

He takes my dress out of my hands, orients it, and holds it open over my head. “Arms in.”

Numb with anxiety, brain beginning the spin-out I knew was coming, I comply. Arms in, and the garment settles onto me. He smooths back my hair with his hands. Takes my hand and tugs me out of his room and into the kitchen. He guides me to a stool at the island. He withdraws a bag of decaf coffee, starts a pot to brewing. While it’s brewing, he moves behind me and begins massaging my shoulders and upper back. His touch is firm but gentle, browsing the upper surface of my muscles for knots and using his thumbs, knuckles and palm heels to loosen them. He doesn’t say anything, and I let my head loll forward, a long low groan slipping out.

Most “massages” I’ve been given—of the personal, nonprofessional variety, I mean—lasted about sixty seconds and did precisely nothing to relax me. Rory works on my tense shoulders and neck for nearly ten minutes.

I groan again. “Coffee smells good.”

“Want some?”

I nod. “Mmmm. Please.” I watch as he pours us each a mug and sits beside me. “This is decaf, right? I watched you make it, I know, but if I have caffeine at this hour, I’ll be up all damn night.

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