I Could Be Yours (Toronto Terror)

by Helena Hunting

“Seriously, say whatever you need to say, Nate. I’m sure you’d love to get whatever is eating at you off your chest.” “You. You’re eating at me,”

“Take your broody asshole down a notch, Nathan. Your black cloud is dimming my shine.”

Nate is wearing a pair of board shorts, a Terror T-shirt, and sandals. My eyeballs appreciate him more than I would like.

It seems she didn’t forget that kiss either. It also seems like I hurt her more than she’s ever let on. That makes me feel worse, but better. Because if given the chance back then, I probably would have mishandled her soft heart. Probably even crushed it. And then maybe it wouldn’t be only me who doesn’t believe in love.

This should be fun—in a stepping-on-a-Lego-barefoot kind of way.

I’m in love with love. I always have been. Fairy tales bring me joy.

Our eyes lock, and then drop to each other’s mouths. I want him to break. And he does. “Fuck it.”

“Why do you have to be so fucking tempting?” He groans and bites the edge of my jaw. “Because the dark is always trying to consume the light.”

Surely we can get each other off without me mentally marrying his brilliant, grumpy, unpleasant, hot ass.

“You don’t need to keep checking to make sure you’re still beautiful,” I murmur. “Just ask me, and I’ll tell you.”

can’t keep someone like Nate’s attention for long. It doesn’t matter that the girl in me who craves acceptance and love wants to be the one to fix him.

I’ve given my heart to so many men who had no intention of keeping it safe. I won’t add him to the list.

He was abandoned by his mother and raised in a house of competitive athletes. Inside this grumpy man is a boy who was probably starved for affection.

“Three million, and you never contact them again,” he says. “Never again,” she agrees.

“And I know you all think Sam is some kind of finisher, but I feel like he probably loves diamond paintings.”

My sunshine-and-rainbows other half. The love of my life. The woman of my dreams.