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"Alone?" She arches her eyebrows like she doesn't believe me.

I insist, "Yes. I love my family, but sometimes, I just need some space. There's always someone up in my business."

She processes that and softly affirms, "I can see how that would be a lot at times."

"It is. And I don't want to scare you away. My family really is great." I grab her hand again and rub my thumb over the top.

"I can already see they are," she assures.

I squeeze her hand. "Good. Because they're going to be part of your life now. There's no getting away from it." I try to say it in a teasing tone, but it comes out sounding awkward, and my pulse rises.

Before she can say anything, another platter of rolls arrives. We spend the better part of an hour trading bites, arguing over whether wasabi belongs mixed into the soy sauce or dabbed directly onto the fish, and finding reasons to lean closer and touch each other.

I catch myself watching her more than I'm eating, cataloging small things I never got the chance to learn the first time around. Like the way she tucks her hair behind her ear on the same side. It's a small, unconscious habit I doubt she even knows she has. And I love the way her laugh starts low in her chest before it breaks loose entirely, unguarded in a way I don't think she lets herself be very often.

"I can't eat anymore. Here." She feeds me another piece.

I chew it, realizing I could sit in this booth for the rest of the night just watching her be exactly, unapologetically herself. And I never got this part with her the first time. The easy back-and-forth, the arguing over condiments, the chance to just sit and laugh. I got the ending before I ever got the beginning, and some stubborn part of me won't let it go.

"I'm trying not to resent our order of operations," I blurt out.

She tilts her head in question. "Order of operations?"

My chest tightens. Eleven months of carrying regret doesn't untangle easily. So I stroke her cheek and search for the right words, admitting, "Don't get me wrong. I loved every second of the night we spent together. Hell, I've gotta stop myself from trying to convince you to do it all over with me again tonight."

Her lips curl and cheeks heat.

The blood in my veins heats and my cock strains against my zipper. I force myself to use my right brain and continue, "We got Charlie out of that night, too, so don't get me wrong when I say this. But I knew you were special the moment I laid eyes on you. And the more time I spent with you, the more I fell for you. So this is what I should have done. I should have gotten your number and taken you on a proper date."

Her smile softens. "Well, you're taking me on one now."

I lean closer. "I am. But that's the part you're not understanding."

"What part?"

I study her for a minute. "I don't plan on stopping until you're fully mine, Lainey Cooper."

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Lainey

Iforget how to form a coherent sentence back. My pulse pounds loud enough I'm sure he can hear it.

Nobody's ever said anything like that to me before. It's like it's already decided and he's simply informing me of the outcome.

My whole body runs hot, then cold, then hot again, a dizzying loop of wanting to believe him completely and bracing for the version of this story where believing him completely gets me hurt worse than last time. I spent months building an assumption around who Jagger Cartwright was and how he could say pretty things in the dark and mean none of them come morning.

Every piece of evidence I've gathered since he walked back into my life says otherwise. Yet there's still some stubborn, well-worn part of me that keeps waiting for the other boot to drop. So I study his face for any hint of a joke hiding behind the words or some crack in the sincerity I could point to and use as an excuse to keep my guard up.

All I see is his steady, unblinking certainty, and the same look he had on his face this morning when he told his whole family Charlie was his without a second of hesitation or regret.

"That's a lot to say over sashimi," I manage finally, because deflecting with humor is the only tool I've got left when my chest feels this full.

"I meant every word of it." He doesn't back down from the intensity in his eyes, doesn't soften it into a joke the way I half expect him to. "Figured you should know where I stand."

Panic and hope tangle together so fast, I can't separate one from the other. They're twin currents pulling in opposite directions until I don't know which one's winning. Part of me wants to grab onto that certainty with both hands. The other part of me wants to remind him that certainty didn't work out so well for either of us the first time around.

"Okay," I say, because it's the only honest word I've got.