“You okay?”

“Yeah.” She raised her gaze from the sheets and fiddled with the clothes he’d given her.

“Want some help?” Playfully, he ran a finger under her bra strap, then drifted down to tug at the hooks and eyes. “I’m really good at these.”

She bet he was. She shook her head at him and held her hair out of the way. “Sure.”

He popped the fasteners in a single deft movement. She twisted away from him as she pushed the straps off her shoulders, exposing her breasts, still bashful even after everything.

God but she wished she could let that go. That she could quiet the voice in the back of her mind that kept whispering all these doubts, about her looks, her talents. About what she deserved. She shivered, flashes of memories crowding in around her, feeling tiny and worthless, and none of it had been fair. It wasn’t fair for it to be coming back to her now.

She’d taken this huge chance on this man, and it had paid off in spades. So why couldn’t she just relax and enjoy it?

Even as she obsessed, Rylan sat there behind her, solid and present and real. He ran his hand down the line of her spine, a whisper-light touch that chased a little of the chill away.

“Pretty,” he said, leaning in, pressing his lips just once, quickly, to the center of her back.

She caught the word and tried to hold on to it. To believe it. “Thanks.”

He eased off then, giving her space to pull his shirt on over her head. The fabric smelled like him, clean and warm somehow. Comforting. Without lifting the sheet from her hips, she got his boxers on, too. They were big on her, but not too bad. The man had a lean, trim waistline.

“Better?”

“Yeah,” she agreed, pulling her hair free from the collar of his shirt. “Much.”

“Good.” With that, he flopped himself down on the mattress, head on the pillows and legs straight in front of him, one ankle crossed over the other. He held his arm out in invitation.

One she was only too happy to accept. Pulling the covers halfway up, she curled into him, resting her head on his shoulder and letting her hand fall across his chest. He was so warm, and he smelled so good. What had she been saying a minute ago about it not being late enough to go to sleep?

They lay there in silence for a while, him combing his hand through her hair while she danced her fingertips over the lines of definition across his abdomen and chest. It was strangely comfortable.

Until she ran the edge of her nail along the chain draped around his neck. It was a series of little interlocking links, and there—hanging from the center of it was . . . a ring? Gold and silver with a row of tiny diamonds down the middle. Large enough that it was probably a man’s. His fingers stilled in her hair when she touched it.

“What is it?” she asked.

His hand settled over hers in a firm but gentle grip. She let go of the ring as he guided her to rest her palm against his belly instead.

“Nothing.” His throat bobbed.

“Nothing?”

“Just my father’s wedding ring.”

Oh. A hundred questions raced through her mind, but it was invasive, wasn’t it? If Rylan was wearing the ring around his neck, his dad was probably gone. Dead or disappeared, or—

“Is he . . .” She trailed off.

Rylan scoffed, apparently hearing what she wasn’t sure if she should say. “He’s in prison.”

Oh.

Another dry chuckle escaped his lips. “The man spent his whole damn life telling me what to do. Imagine my surprise when I find out what he’s been up to all these years.” A flicker of pain—of betrayal—creased his brow.

“I’m sorry.”

He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. I’ve made my peace with it.”

Like hell he had. Everything about him was bristling.

Letting go of her hand, he trailed his fingers up his chest to tap the edge of the band. “He gave me this a long time ago. Right after the divorce. He took it off the second he got back from the lawyer’s office and he . . . he made as if to throw it away.”

She hummed in invitation, willing him to go on.

Remembering her own father, and how he had thrown them all away . . .

Ever so slowly, he resumed his stroking of her hair. “I asked if I could have it. And he laughed.” Bitterness shadowed his tone. “But he still gave it to me.”

She stayed there, quiet, waiting for more, but he didn’t speak again.

It was the tiniest glimpse. She could imagine it, a younger, wider-eyed Rylan looking up to this hulking father figure. From the sound of it, only to be let down over and over. An ache pressed at the center of her ribs, a sudden need to know more.

The words were right there, compelling her to ask, but before they could escape, she bit her tongue. She hardly knew this man. They’d shared a couple of nights together, and she liked him. A lot. But he didn’t owe her anything. Not his history and not his confidence. Not if he didn’t want to offer them up to her.

From the stiff set of his jaw, she had a feeling he’d already given more of each than he usually did.

A different instinct crept over her as she stared at him. Not to push, but instead to give him something in return. She considered for a long, silent moment. Then with forced deliberateness, she relaxed her posture, returned her breathing to normal. Stroked the stretch of skin beneath her fingertips, keeping them far away from the shiny glimmer of that ring.

“I haven’t spoken to my dad since I was twelve.”

Some of the tension bled out of his shoulders. “That’s a long time.”

“Yeah. Well. He was . . . not a nice man.” That wasn’t even the half of it. He’d left her with this mess in her head, this tiny piece of herself that always said she wasn’t good enough, didn’t deserve what she did get, was never going to make anything of herself . . . She swallowed hard. “Not to me and not to my mom. He . . .” Manipulated us. Made us think we couldn’t stand on our own two feet and then . . . “He lied to her. For years. Cheated.” That was an offense anyone could understand. One she could explain without tearing herself apart. “Not exactly the kind of thing you get over quickly.”

Or at all.

Rylan chuckled, rubbing his thumb across the back of her palm. “Fathers, huh? They fuck you up.”

She shivered. “You can say that again.”

She loved that he had said it. He couldn’t possibly understand with how much she’d kept unspoken. But for one shimmering instant, it felt like he did.

They lay there, gently touching and holding each other in the quiet of that space. It was tentative, a shaky intimacy built on half-formed confessions and the barest hints of their histories. But it felt good. Safe.

After a minute or two, he let out a breath and squeezed her shoulder. “So.” A brightness crept into his tone, a false levity. Letting go of her hand, he reached over to the nightstand for the remote. “You had a chance to try French television yet?”

The fuzzy closeness of the moment shivered, but it didn’t shatter.

She turned her gaze toward the screen as it came to life on the other side of the room. “No. I haven’t.”

“It’s an experience.”

As he pressed a button, the sounds of fast-spoken French filled the room, and she frowned.

“Do they have English subtitles?”

“Don’t worry.” He pressed a kiss to the side of her temple. “I can translate.”

He flipped through the channels for a bit before he found something that must have appealed to him, and he set the remote down at his side, shifting to hold her hand again. True to his word, he murmured his interpretation of the dialogue into her ear, his voice deep and warm. She let it wrap around her the way his arms did.

And if she couldn’t keep her gaze from flickering to the bit of gold between his collarbones, well. At least she did her best.

chapter NINE