Mister Romance by Amelia Simone (the reading list .txt) 📕

her terribly, mostly. But I hadn’t fallen into the panacea of work to the exclusion of all else. I’d shown I could be more for her and for myself. Her eyes were shiny, and I didn’t know if that meant I was on the right track or had totally sunk my battleship. She wiped her eyes discreetly and pushed the letter back into the folio before approaching me at the table.

“Chase.” She sighed, running her hands over the envelope. I felt that sigh to my toes. Disappointment crashed through me, and I did my best to control my expression before she caught me. “I feel this is an appropriate time to mention that I’m not wearing any underwear.”

She cleared her throat and the sound ricocheted through my brain, lighting up the lustful dreams I abandoned when I thought my plan had failed. “Not to be sexy; just to be safe. I like my underwear and don’t want it torn.” She caught my confused expression and clarified. “Aaand I’m kidding,” she said.

I laughed and felt the tension bleed out of my shoulders. Her twinkling good humor reassured me.

“Does that mean that I’m forgiven?” I asked softly as I tugged her to her feet and into the shelter of my arms. “I’m truly sorry I hurt you.”

Tamra tilted her head back until I could see the liquid warmth in her dark eyes. “I’ve never had such a thorough apology.”

That wasn’t a yes, but the way she leaned into my body gave me hope. I cleared my throat. “Why don’t we eat while we talk?”

She smiled and took her seat at the table.

“This looks delicious.” She caught sight of the lettering on her piece and laughed. “Chase, I’m sensing a theme here.”

I shrugged sheepishly, grabbed the utensils, and joined her for dinner. I picked at my own food, watching her out of the corner of my eye. Her blissed out face after her first bite of quiche helped me focus on my own plate.

I opened my mouth to ask her about her week, or her sisters, then reconsidered. I didn’t want to pick at any old wounds. She caught me staring.

“What?” she asked. “Do I have egg on my face?”

I forced a smile. “Nope. Pretty sure that’s me.”

Tamra tilted her head, and the dark curls cascaded over one shoulder. Her expression was serene. I cleared my throat. “Do you think you can forgive me?”

She pushed a bite around before making eye contact with me.

“I’m through being a quitter.”

I couldn’t mask my confusion. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

She shrugged and pushed an O shaped radish round in circles. I scowled. “Tamra, I’m the asshole here. If we need a panel of the finest strangers to testify on your behalf, we can post it as a question online, but I think we both know the answer.” I held a hand to my chest. “I’m the screw-up.”

She shook her head and refused to look at me. “Hey. Hey,” I said, wrapping my hand around hers where she gripped her fork. She finally looked up, and what I saw in her eyes had me letting go immediately. She didn’t believe me. I shook my head. No. My letter was supposed to make her feel better, more confident in my feelings for her. Not gaslight her into something she didn’t want.

If she truly didn’t want me, then I needed to walk away. I took a sip of wine to ease the tightness in my chest. Yes, I wanted to convince her to give me another try, but make her feel like a quitter for refusing me. She had to want it too.

I swallowed down the ache. The last thing I wanted was to lose this chance. So why was I giving it up without a fight? Her brown eyes told the story. For Tamra. I’d do anything for her. If I wasn’t what she needed, then it was better to realize it now.

As much as it pained me, I forced the next words out. “I think we should be friends.”

Her bewildered expression had me blowing past the bullshit clogging my throat and serving it up like the finest fudge. “Until I can prove myself. This way, if I screw up, you’re free to move on. No quitting required.”

Tamra gave her head a shake, as if she heard me wrong. I wanted to backtrack. Pull the words back in and smash them down into my burning gut. As much as I wanted her in my life, I didn’t want her manipulated to be there. She had to want me, not fear what leaving me said about her.

“What is it you think is happening here?” she asked.

“You said it yourself—you’re tired of being a quitter. But that doesn’t mean you have to stay with me.”

Her brows arched. “Oh, yeah? Then why should I stay?”

I swallowed. Hard. Did I argue for what I wanted, or what I thought she needed? Sensing my indecision, she pushed forward. “Should I stay because I feel special, seen, and accepted for maybe the first time in my life? Or because you cook a mean apology meal? How about because I can’t stop thinking about you, and I want to be with you?”

I swallowed again and nodded. Relief flowed through me at her words.

“Yeah? Which one?” she asked softly.

“Any of them, but I’m hoping it’s for more than my cooking.” I swallowed and forced a smile. “There’s always takeout.”

Her lips tilted up, and my smile became more genuine. I reached out and clasped her fingers in mine, enjoying the elegant arch of her knuckles and the short nails. “So, you’re ready to try this. Us? For real?”

I didn’t hold my breath, but I wanted to. She nodded. “Chase, I’m ready.”

“You know I’m going to mess up again?”

“So am I.” Her eyes met mine and she shrugged. “I didn’t have to take it so hard when you stood me up. You forgetting about me reminded me of all the times my own family showed how easy it