Free His Forbidden Bride: 50 Loving States, West Virginia by Theodora Taylor Page A

routine as if there isn’t one hell of a first act surprise waiting for me back in my bedroom.
    Switching my mind to the Left Coast, I check my current special phone which I keep in the catch-all drawer. There’s a missed called from Dad, followed by several pissed off texts from Sandy.
    “Sorry!” I text Dad. “Can’t talk this morning. Work emergency. Will talk with you same time in four weeks. Okay? Thanks! Sorry! But thanks!!!”
    I know Dad won’t find that answer remotely satisfying, and I pre-emptively turn the phone all the way off, lest he and Sandy start inundating me with calls I really don’t want to take with a certain amnesia victim in the house.
    So instead of talking with my dad, I make John and myself the most gourmet of breakfasts: Kashi Cinnamon Harvest cereal with almond milk.
    Okay, not exactly the breakfast of champions. But it’s what I grew up eating back in Compton, and also one of the few things I have left to eat in the house until the grocery delivery comes this afternoon.
    I don’t expect John to be all that impressed when I walk back into the room with the tray of hastily prepared food. But I also don’t expect to find him sitting on top of the bed in a pair of boxer briefs, strumming out a song on my guitar.
    After a few bars, I recognize the melody.
    “That’s ‘Ghosts,’ a Colin Fairgood song,” I say, setting the tray down on the never before used nightstand on his side of the bed.
    “You know it?” he asks, looking up at me.
    “Yeah, pretty much everybody does. It was his first super huge crossover hit.” I bring out my iPhone and after a few swipes and touches, Colin Fairgood’s voice fills the room.
    John tilts his head to the side. “Yeah, that’s the song. It’s ‘old’ to me. I like it.”
    “Country isn’t my favorite,” I admit to John. “But I like it, too. And hey, look at you playing a guitar!”
    I take my guitar back and press the bowl of Kashi into his hands. “Maybe you’re some sort of musician,” I say as I set the guitar back on its stand in the far corner of the room. “I mean, if you’ve got country songs down like that.”
    But he shakes his head. “I don’t think so. I saw your guitar sitting over there and I got this feeling if I played it, I’d be more relaxed.”
    “You’re feeling anxious?” I ask, studying him sharply and remembering what happened when that neuro jerk accidentally triggered him.
    But then he throws me a lazy smile and says, “Not now that you’re back.”
    I look away. “You really shouldn’t say things like that.”
    “Why not?” he asks. “It’s the truth.”
    “Because…” I shake my head, unable to explain all of it to him. About boys and girls and the games we play, so no one will be accused of liking the other too much. “It’s just not what most guys do...”
    “So, I’m different,” he says after considering my words for a quiet moment. “Tell me, Doc. How am I different from the other guys you know?”
    “Well, you’re a lot more direct. I mean, you say whatever’s on your mind, and you don’t seem to care how it makes you look. Most guys hold their cards a lot closer to their chests than you do. Does that make sense?”
    “Hmm,” he says after a long while.
    It’s my turn to ask, “What?”
    “I’m listening to what you’re saying, Doc, but I’m also thinking, ‘she’s talking about other guys. And I don’t like that.’”
    Again, I’m not quite sure what to do in the face of his stark truth, so I treat it like a medical mystery. Keep my voice neutral as I answer, “Yes, I noticed you’re kind of dominant.”
    “Dominant,” he repeats.
    “Controlling. Like you expect to be in charge. The way you had sex with me last night—it was like you were putting me in my place. Establishing who was in control.”
    He doesn’t answer, but when I dare to look up from my cereal bowl, a new presence has joined our conversation. His cock has hardened into a long, thick line