“It’s not… I barely know him.”
“And you barely know me,” he says.
“With you it’s different.”
I think he sighs as he wraps his arms around me again. “Yes, it is.”
My heart is beating so hard he has to feel it where our bodies are pressed together. “Adar…”
“What’s wrong then? You can talk to me.”
He’s right, I can. I trust him like I haven’t trusted anyone. I feel I can let my guard down, too, with him.
“I’m just… not sure,” I whisper. “That I want to be with him. The thought of having his children makes me want to throw up.”
His body starts to shake and after a long moment of confusion, I realize that he’s silently laughing.
“What’s so funny?” I demand.
“Your wail of despair.”
“I’m not wailing! And certainly not in despair.”
“How do you feel about havingmychildren, then?”
I shake my head against his chest, but now I’m smiling. “You are an ass.”
“You’ll want his children,” he says after a longer pause, his laughter dying. “When you fall in love with him.”
“Will I?”
“It’s a known fact that a woman who is in love with a man will want to have his children.”
I lightly hit my fist against his solid chest. “No, I mean, will I fall in love with him?”
He’s quiet, then, his arms so tight around me I can barely breathe. “Can’t answer that for you,” he says eventually, releasing me. “Nobody can, except yourself.”
“He said… he said there are many kinds of love. That some are like lighting and some start slow and build. Or something like that.”
“He would know, I suppose. He must have fallen in love often.”
I frown at him. “You’re being sarcastic.”
He huffs and grabs a pebble, throws it into the water. It skips once on the surface. “He’s the man you want. I don’t have to like him. Damn it all.”
I gape at him as something dawns on me. “You’re jealous.”
He growls, pulls himself away, toward the water. “I don’t give a damn who you marry, princess. Go and live a happy life with him.”
But he does give a damn and heisjealous. His anger is a catalyst, tearing down my last, hastily constructed defenses. He cares. No matter that sometimes he pretends otherwise.
“Adar, wait.” I jump to my feet, start toward him—and slip in the mud. With a cry, I fall down the bank.
He catches me, rolls so that I fall on top of him, the breath going out of him as I land on his chest. “Careful,” he gasps.
“Sorry, sorry.” I scramble to get off him, scooting backward so that I’m not sitting right on his ribcage anymore and—
“Damn.” He gasps again and something pokes my behind. “Stop wiggling.”