I try to look away, to put some distance between us so I can ultimately change the subject. This is a little more vulnerability than I’m ready for. With vulnerability come the rough edges and the bruised parts of my heart and soul, and I’m not prepared for Cole to see those.

But as I squirm, working my way into another place both mentally and physically, Cole holds me tight. He looks at me so deeply that I have no choice but to live with his words for a moment.

Is he right? I know I learned and fought and rose above the shitty life that I had with my father. But have I twisted who did what? Should I not attribute my strength to Dad’s weaknesses?

There’s no judgment in his pretty blue eyes. He’s not prying or poking or digging in to somehow twist things back on me like I’ve had done before. Instead, he just sees me standing in front of him and accepts it.

“If only you could see yourself from my perspective,” he says. “You’re smart and strong and protective. You’re a survivor. You’re beautiful and funny.”

I’m not sure how to respond to that . . . because I think he might believe it.

“You think I’m funny?” I ask, grinning.

He laughs. “I think you’re so many things, and the more I learn about you, the more interesting I think you are.”

“And here I thought you knew all kinds of women. But you must not if I’m interesting.”

“Want me to give you a list?” He smirks. “I could detail all of the women I know—”

“No.”

The abruptness of my response catches us both by surprise. While my eyes go wide, his smirk deepens.

“You sure? I could compare and contrast you with your predecessors . . .” He leans closer to me. “And tell you how you beat them all in every category.”

Whether he truly believes that or not—and really, how could he?—I’m not in a position to argue with him. I don’t want to argue with him about it. I’ll take the sensation of walking on air over bickering with him about my flaws any day of the week.

Or, at least, I will right now.

His smirk dissolves into a grin as his hands reach for my face. He nestles my face in his palms, stroking my cheeks with his thumbs.

It’s magic. Standing in this cozy little house with Cole Beck looking at me like I’m the main character in the story is nothing short of marvelous. There hasn’t been a moment in my life when I’ve felt this steady—confident and valued. I’m standing a little taller than normal. My thoughts aren’t racing. I’m doing something that I normally can’t, and that’s a state of just breathing.