Only that smile of his is still there. “I can see that. Feel free to carry on.” He leans a shoulder against the wall and waggles his brows as if encouraging me.
With a huff of laughter, I turn off the speakers. “Why do I have the feeling you like watching me dance? And not because I’m great at it?” Truth is, I know I’m not great at dancing. But I like doing it, so I don’t really care.
His smile grows. “Because you’re cute as a bug.”
Slowly he strolls over to me. His body is warm and smells of soap. I hum in pleasure as he hugs me close and peppers soft kisses over my face. “I’m glad you felt like dancing, Ivy Mac.”
With his arm wrapped around my waist, he guides me over to the couch, his nose nuzzling my hair. “It’s okay to let yourself be happy again, honey.”
I know he’s right. Somehow, his words make me feel free to let myself relax.
We settle down, Gray propping his big feet on the coffee table, and me leaning on his chest. His hand rests on my thigh, and I notice that all his fingers are wrapped in bandages. On both hands.
“What happened?” Alarmed, I pick up one of his hands. “Did you get in a fight?”
“Nah,” he says easily. “Nothing like that.” Gray shifts around a bit and starts pulling the bandages off his left hand. “Got this done early this morning.”
Past the slight puffy redness of his skin, I see that he now has a black number tattooed on each of his four fingers. “One-one-eight-four,” I read out loud.
“Yep.” Gray unravels the rest of the bandages. He holds his hand out in front of us, his fingers spread wide and displaying the numbers one-two-one-zero, before letting it rest on my leg once more. “I’ve been wanting another tattoo. I’ve thought about using an amicable number pair for a while. But after New Orleans, I knew.”
“I have no idea what an amicable number is,” I tell him.
“It’s like this. The sum of all the natural divisors of 1184 is 1210, and vise-versa. It’s almost as if the number is the other’s soul mate.” His deep blue eyes peer down at me. “Like you and me.”
I start to smile, then sit up. “Wait, are you trying to say this tattoo is about us?”
“Of course. You probably don’t remember, but my room number in New Orleans was 1184. And yours was 1210.”
A little jolt of surprise hits me. “You texted about that.”
“Yeah,” he says gently, because he clearly realizes I’ve had other things on my mind. “But that’s not why I got these tattoos. That was just a sign.” Gray’s thumb strokes along my knuckles. “When I first met you that day at the airport, you seemed so familiar to me, so right, that I thought we were like a pair of amicable numbers.”
Warmth floods my chest. “Gray. That is…” I lean over and kiss his soft lips. “Perfect.”
His fingers briefly touch my cheek as he kisses me back. “The fact is, Ivy, for me, there is one absolute truth. The sum of my existence equals you.”
Suddenly I want those numbers tattooed on my skin too. My vision blurs as I grab hold of him, claim his mouth with mine, whisper his name against his lips.
Love. I’ve been surrounded by it my whole life. I know how lucky I am to have that. And yet it’s always been a comfortable kind of love, expected in the way of family. What I feel for Gray? It isn’t comfortable. It’s so intense and so enormous, sometimes I fear my soul can’t contain it.
I kiss him deeper, my arms twined around his neck, holding him close. Every time I kiss him, I want more and more. I want to draw him inside of me and keep him there. Safe. Protected. Part of me.
Gray cups my cheek, his hand spanning my jaw, fingers curled around my head. His size makes me feel small and delicate, and yet his words, his actions make me feel strong and invincible, even when my heart has been sliced in two by our loss.
He kisses me back. Not frantic, but slow, steady, melting. As if we have all the time in the world to explore each other. As if he could live right here, wrapped around me, lips seeking and tasting.
“I love you,” I say into his mouth. Because he should hear that. Every day.
Gray grunts, skims a path along my cheek with his lips. He kisses my closed lids. Light. Tender. “Love you more, Mac.”
“Not possible.” I ease back to look at him. Gray’s eyes are a little bloodshot and puffy. He hasn’t been sleeping well, all his efforts focused on me. I think of the times he cried with me, trying to hide the fact by pressing his face into my hair. I’d noticed, but had been too soul-sick to do much about it.
Tenderness swells in my chest as I trace one bronze brow. “Hey,” I whisper. “We’re going to be okay.”
Because I know this now. In truth, I knew the second he’d walked in that hotel room after the miscarriage, his focus entirely on me. It had felt like a missing piece of me—one I’d never really realized was gone until then—had clicked back into place. No matter how badly I hurt, or how lost I feel, Gray’s presence makes everything bearable.
Gray’s lids lower a little as he leans into my touch. “Of course we are.” Not even a shadow of doubt in his voice.
I give him a soft kiss. I love his mouth. Love the way it feels against mine.
And Gray sighs. He’s warm and relaxed and holding me as if he’ll never let go.
Love. It’s this fierce thing rushing through my veins, making my heart pump harder. I’m twenty-two years old, and I know with every insistent beat of my heart that I love this man. My rock. My lover. My best friend. “Gray?”