Better Hate than Never (The Wilmot Sisters, #2)(103)

“Easy for you to say!” I gesture up and down him. “You’ve got it all together.”

He lifts his eyebrows, then pauses, tipping his head. “You think I have it all together?”

I snort, but I’m not amused.

Gently, he takes me by the elbow and tugs me into his arms. “I don’t have it all together, Kate.”

“You have a kajillion dollars. A straightforward career. A beautiful home. A knack for doing laundry. And a brain that doesn’t make life delightful but also deeply frustrating sometimes.”

“Is that right?” He peers down at me. “Kate, you more than most know how unfair and unmerited generational wealth is. My dad was a shrewd businessman who died young and left me a good company—that’s hardly something I did. As for my house, again, inherited, and it’s not beautiful by many people’s standards, just yours, which, frankly, is all I care about.” He bites his cheek. “And as for my brain . . . it is deeply, deeply frustrating. Often.”

I stare up at him, noticing for the first time since we hustled out of his house the smudges under his eyes, the pinch of pain at the corners of his mouth. “And have you told me how your brain is actually, truthfully feeling today?” I ask.

He glances away, scrubbing at his neck. “Not . . . exactly.”

“Huh. How’s that little quid pro quo lecture feeling now?”

“Kate . . .” He sighs heavily. “Fine. My head fucking hurts. There, you happy?”

“Happy? No.” I run a hand along his arm. “I hate that you hurt. That I can’t do shit about it. But I’m grateful that you told me.”

“Hmph.”

I smile up at him, gently taking over rubbing his neck. A little groan leaks out of him. “Sharing your mess is easier said than done, isn’t it?”

Christopher wraps his arms around me and sets his chin on my head. “Yes.”

Hugging him back, I settle my head over his heart. “Tell me. Try.”

He sighs heavily. “My neurologist thinks I need to try a new medication, but who the hell knows if it’ll help or make things worse, so I’m holding off, dreading committing to that course of action. So, yeah, often lately and today, my head fucking hurts. I slept well with you when we slept, but I didn’t sleep enough. I feel like I’ve got tiny woodland creatures scratching at the backs of my eyeballs and my neck hurts, and I hate it. Because I want to tell you to put on your Badazz Feminist playlist at full volume and headbang to songs with you while we tackle this room’s mess, then I want to lay you down on your freshly made bed and give you a couple orgasms, and I’m not sure I can do any of that right now.”

“So we won’t,” I tell him, rubbing his back. “I will clear off my bed and put fresh sheets on it. And then you will get out of those fancy clothes and put on the comfy things you keep in your little Christopher drawer. You’ll take whatever meds might help you get a lead on your migraine, and we’ll nap or do whatever you need to ride it out. We’ll take turns. You took care of me when I spiraled out this morning. I’ll take care of you now. Deal?”

He swallows thickly, his cheek suddenly resting heavy on my head. “And here I thought I had a novice negotiator on my hands.”

I smile against his chest, then kiss right over his heart. “You should know by now, I’m a very fast learner.”





? THIRTY-SIX ?


    Christopher


For a moment after my eyes open, I have no idea where I am. Strangely, I’m not in my bed. Even more strange, I feel deeply rested. Strangest, loveliest yet, I’m wrapped around the slope of a familiar waist. A small, soft breast is my pillow. A steady heartbeat thuds beneath my ear.

My vision adjusts to the soft warm light coming from behind me, dimmed low. Now I see her, and everything makes sense.

Kate.

I stare at her as she comes into focus, lashes casting shadows on her cheeks, her mouth pursed in concentration. She wears her big headphones nestled in that bird’s nest I love, knitting needles clicking in her hands, balls of yarn strewn across the other side of the bed.

She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

As I watch her, my heart’s door creaks wide open on rusty, unused hinges, heavy, slow, determined nonetheless.

And when she peers down at me, greets me with such a deep, sweet smile and those eyes like the ocean, peaceful and calm after a storm, I know with certainty I will never close that door again—for her, it’s as good as gone, turned to ash, dissolved in the wind.

Because I love her.

“I love you,” I tell her hoarsely, before I know what’s come out of my mouth. My heart’s an elevator, plummeting to its doom.

Until her knitting needles freeze as she nudges off her headphones and says, “Hmm?”

I exhale roughly, saved. “Hi,” I tell her.

Her smile deepens. Back to knitting, needles clacking, she asks, “Comfortable?”

I nod and then feel water dripping down my temple. Bringing a hand to my head, I find cool plastic. A memory of frozen vegetables being piled on my head comes back to me. I remember Kate closing the curtains to her room, grumbling and pissed that I insisted on helping her make the bed. I remember the gentle way she shoved me back onto the mattress and tugged off my boots and jeans, then peeled off my sweater and kissed my forehead. I remember her sliding a clean, soft shirt over my head and how that felt impossibly more sensual, more intimate, than having my clothes taken off.