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“I’ll be here,” he vows.

And I know he will. I know deep in my bones, in the pit of my soul, that he’ll always be here. As long as I let him.

As long as he breathes.

16

HE LOVES YOU

DECEMBER 2009 – 18 YEARS OLD

Dressed in purple fleece pyjamas with tiny white daisies, I leave my room to find that Tate has turned off every light save for the ones that twinkle on the tree.

“I made you a fresh hot chocolate.” He breaks the silence. “Yours was cold.”

My eyes drift to the steaming mug on the coffee table before shifting back to the man. “Thank you.”

“Wasn’t sure what you want to watch.” He gestures to the dark television. “I’m down for anything.”

“Anything?” I dare.

Tate smirks, meeting my dare without a trace of fear. “Anything, sweetheart.”

Warmth flickers inside me at the endearment. He’s called me sweetheart before, when I was Holt’s. Even then I remember it feeling…well, it felt like a warm hug.

I used to tell myself he was like a big brother. That the feeling of safety he surrounded me with was because of that.

Now, I’m not so sure. Now, I question everything.

How can I not?

I drop onto the couch, swiping the remote. “I’m thinking something romantic and sappy.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” he teases.

I shoot him a look, eyes dropping to his jeans before lifting back to his. “You’re not going to change into something more comfortable?”

“You think I should?”

I shrug. “Up to you.”

He claps a hand around the back of his neck, eyes drifting to the hall. “Yeah, maybe I will.”

“Go change. I’ll find us something.”

“Now that sounds like a threat.”

I roll my eyes, but I’m focused on the screen now. “Just go.”

Tate laughs as he leaves. I pick a cutsie love story just for him, pausing the screen to wait and only perking when I hear him in the kitchen. The hiss of a pop opening has my heart picking up speed, and I reach to pull the blanket hanging over the back of the couch into my lap. If nothing else, I can hide from…

Tate appears and my mouth goes suddenly dry.

He’s wearing red and black plaid pyjama pants low on hips that are sharply sculpted. He’s also not wearing a shirt. I don’t know when he turned from boy-man to man-man. But Tate is all man now. His arms are thick, and his chest is hard and full. His abs are—and the V disappearing into his pants—Shy would call those lines lick-able.

Gosh, I’m not thinking of Tate as lick-able!

Or am I…?