Practice Makes Perfect (When in Rome, #2)

by Sarah Adams

And the worst part is, I’m not just physically attracted to her. I can’t get enough of hearing her talk, and I want to read every book she has stashed away, and I want more than anything to take her on an adventure she’ll never forget.

I swear the sunlight hits this woman differently than other people. It seeps into her skin, makes her glow.

I have melted into a puddle in the booth. I am no longer human—just a blob of desire.

Seeing her bathed in light and surrounded by flowers from out here in the dark makes me feel like a man who slipped out of hell and is glimpsing heaven.

I’ve never wanted to crawl into someone’s head and read all of their thoughts like I do with Annie. My need to understand her, to know every desire, every hope and fear and longing, scares me.

Until I met her and held her in my arms, I never knew I could be capable of so much tenderness. And I’m not talking about sex. I’m talking about tender conversations. Tender words. Tender understanding. Even the way she breathes against my neck while she sleeps is tender—and I want it. All of it.

And something happens to me that I’ve never experienced before. The world around me falls away, and for once, I’m not worried what anyone is thinking of me. All I know is Will’s eyes are fixed on mine, and his mouth is curving softly and his hand is dropping to my leg where it splays out like it’s been in that same spot a hundred times before.

“Wait. I have a cold. I had a fever yesterday. I don’t want you to catch it.” “Do you feel bad right now?” “No, I feel a lot better today, but—” “Then give me the damn cold, Annie,” I say quietly next to her ear. I feel her shiver lightly, but I know it’s not from a fever.

This one is for the softies. The tenderhearted sweeties. The introverts who are afraid to shine.