"What?" Lorenzo asked, his voice barely a whisper. "What were you going to say?"
He looked at her like she held both the match and the gasoline—and he was the soul caught between combustion and salvation. Everything depended on her next words.
Ashley gently unwrapped her legs from his waist, sliding down from him, though his arms stayed wrapped around her.
Her eyes swept briefly over the glimmering surface of the pool, then settled on his chest. Her heart raced so wildly, she feared it might burst out.
"Aren't you going to keep the wine and glasses down?" she asked softly, brushing an imaginary crease from his shirt.
Lorenzo obeyed, placing them carefully at the edge of the pool. Then turned back to her.
"You know," he said, voice low and steady, "you don't have to say it back—not until you're ready."
Something tightened in his chest, but he meant every word. He'd waited nine years. He could wait longer. However long it took for her to feel the same.
