Raven didn’t answer, too terrified of what confession would spill from her lips.

Her eyes stung with tears. They lay in the quiet, in the dark, for a long while. Finally Raven knew it was time. She couldn’t listen to his truths and not give her own. This thing between them was too big, and right then, right there, she came to a shattering, awful, splintering conclusion.

She was falling in love with Dalton Pierce.

The words formed in her mind, and she tried desperately to focus so she could communicate all of her feelings. She dragged in a shuddering breath. “Dalton, I have to tell you something. I know you’re going to have a lot of questions, but first I owe you the truth. I’m falling for you just as hard, and I’m scared to death. Because my father was the one who ran away with your mother. I’ve wanted to tell you for a while, but I was confused and trying to work out this whole thing in my mind. God, I’m probably telling you this all wrong, but I think they fell in love with each other and I think they were coming back. I believe it. My father wouldn’t have left me, and now I know your mother wouldn’t have left you. Do you understand? I’m so sorry . . . Please answer me.”

Silence.

“Dalton?”

A low snore rose up behind her.

She turned slowly around to look at his face. Eyes closed, brow smooth in sleep, those gorgeous lips parted halfway to allow his breath to escape, he hadn’t heard a word of her own confession.

She watched him for a while, biting her lip as she struggled to decide if she should wake him.

No. She’d tell him tomorrow.

It had to be done.

chapter twenty-two

Dalton lay awake and stared up at the ceiling. The early-morning light snuck in through the blinds and scattered dancing patterns on the honey-brown walls.

She was a cuddler. She managed to surprise him again. He’d expected her to be more like Amy Schumer’s character from the movie Trainwreck. He’d prepared himself for a quick embrace after sex, then for her to roll over and fall asleep, making sure there was plenty of space and distance between them.

Instead, her arm was flung over his chest, as if imprisoning him during the night. Her face smooshed against his shoulder, and her thigh wedged firmly in between his legs, urging a morning erection. Glorious waves of gypsy hair sprung in all directions, covering him in a silky blanket. His skin felt wet, which confirmed she drooled in her sleep. Why did he find that so damn charming? Was he nuts?

She trusted him on an instinctual level that soothed the wild beast inside. It was difficult to sleep soundly with a partner, especially in the beginning of a relationship. Natural slumber required a deep innate trust and willingness to be vulnerable. He’d rarely been able to grab an hour of light rest with other women. But last night, not only had he shared an integral part of his past, he’d collapsed afterward into a deep sleep.

He stared at her relaxed form. Damn, he ached to wake her up by spreading her thighs and pushing slowly inside her. Watch her orgasm between the delicate line of slumber and wakefulness. But she needed rest.

Moving slowly, he slipped out of bed and padded naked into the kitchen. He made a pot of coffee, deciding to take a quick shower while it brewed. Pulling on his jeans afterward and leaving them unzipped, he poured a mug and stood by the window to watch the day bound into existence with joyful abandon. The sun streamed through the windows, and birds flew back and forth, playing hide-and-go-seek within the tree branches. He sipped the steaming brew and wondered what he was going to do.

He’d practically confessed his deepest emotions and been met with . . . silence.

How many times had a woman spilled intimate thoughts that bordered on the L word to him? Numerous? He was honored and humbled but had never felt even a hint of the same. Even with the few women he’d begun strong with, the spark that he hoped would turn brighter always sputtered and died like a birthday candle blown out. He’d never passed more than a hard like for another.

Not with Raven. He’d never shared the circumstances of his mother’s death before. Never wanted to. But last night, something had broken inside him, and for the first time he felt right about telling her everything. He wanted her to know more about him.

He wanted her to trust him.

The initial spark between them not only burned brighter but turned into a raging forest fire, crashing through each of his barriers until he was left with a devastated landscape, completely vulnerable. Everything inside him turned from gray to neon. With her, he was completely alive, his nerve endings tingling, his heart galloping, his dick aching. It was so much more than like. So much more than lust.

Was this what falling in love was?

Yet she hadn’t responded to his admission. Was she scared because he didn’t fit in with her planned future of marriage and kids? Was she protecting herself? Did she still think he played games with her? Or even worse, did she just not feel the same way and not know how to tell him?

Dalton groaned, squeezing his eyes shut. He was a lovesick pup begging at her feet. He hated it, but he didn’t know what else to do. He needed to explore and push further, to possibly see what else could blossom between them. Morgan insisted he convince Raven to come to dinner. Maybe getting her on his own turf, around his family, would help her see him in his own element.

He loved the idea of having her eat at his table, surrounded by his family. He pictured her as part of his noisy, dysfunctional, loving circle and had no desire to run. Maybe Raven needed more time with him so he could convince her she was different. He still didn’t intend to make long-term promises, but God, he craved her like a drug, every minute of every day.

And it was getting worse.

“Morning.”

He turned. She smiled, walking into the kitchen to pour a cup of coffee, clad in a short, silky scarlet robe. He admired the way the fabric emphasized her tight nipples, the flare of her hips, and showed off the bare curve of leg down to her pretty red toenails. She didn’t seem freaked out or concerned about last night. In fact, she seemed at ease in her kitchen, walking over to him with her coffee and pressing a kiss to his mouth.

“Morning,” he said gruffly.

She sipped her coffee and made a face. “Too weak. Where’s the punch?”

He tugged at a stray tendril of hair, then tucked it tenderly behind her ear. “Coffee shouldn’t be a wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am experience. It should be a journey, a slow slide upward, a buzz of energy that warms the blood.”