“Kate,” he says roughly.
I answer, redirecting my touch to the safer territory of his hair. “What.”
“E-enough.” His voice breaks on the word.
“I’m not done,” I tell him, smoothing back the pieces curling around his ears and jaw.
“I am,” he grunts. Easing away, he sits straight again and sighs heavily, eyes scrunched shut.
“Did I hurt you?”
He tips his head back and blinks up at the ceiling. Another heavy sigh leaves him. “In a manner of speaking.”
He’s clearly not in actual pain, so I go back to sorting out the last few straggling pieces that need to be smoothed back. “What is with your hair these days? It’s so long.”
He shuts his eyes again and lets out another long-suffering sigh. “I’ve had to cancel my last few haircuts, then it just got to the point that I said, ‘Fuck it, I’m wearing it this way.’？”
“Why’d you have to cancel so many haircuts?” I ask, leaning back, examining how I’ve arranged his hair, deciding one last comb through with my fingers will do the trick—
His hands come up to mine and clasp them, stopping me. Gently, his thumbs circle the sensitive skin of my wrists. I’m not sure if he draws me nearer or if I take a step, but somehow I’m now closer between his legs, staring down at him.
Christopher swallows roughly, his eyes searching mine. “Migraines. The last three appointments I had migraines, so I had to cancel.”
I blink at him, stunned by this admission. The last time Christopher admitted to or, hell, even spoke about his migraines was before his parents died.
Gently, I tug my hands from his grip. Like an unspoken choreography, my hands land on his shoulders as his wrap around my hips again. We both jump a little, then settle like a circuit complete, energy humming between us.
“For that to have happened on three different appointments, the chances of that,” I say quietly, my fingertips curling toward the base of his neck, toying with the soft dark licks of hair that hit his collar. “You must get them a lot.”
His hands’ grip flexes on my hips. “I manage fine, Kate.”
It’s a nonanswer that’s answer enough. He’s not even trying to dismiss their frequency, meaning it must be really rough. He’s a pain in my ass, but the thought of him hurting so badly makes me feel sick to my stomach.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
He makes an impatient noise in the back of his throat. “Don’t apologize for something you aren’t responsible for. If anyone should be saying sorry right now, it’s me.”
“Why should you say sorry?”
His palms slip across my lower back, so gentle, as his thumbs graze my waist. “I gave you hell earlier,” he says quietly, “when you showed up today. I didn’t even consider you’d gotten your schedule mixed up instead of messing with me. I forgot—”
“That I have ADHD?” I snort. “Once I stick around more than a few days, it’s impossible to miss, isn’t it?”
His hands glide higher up my back and draw me closer. “Why have you stuck around, Kate?”
I bite my lip, my fingers curling into his hair at the nape of his neck, softly scraping up into the silky strands. “It’s complicated,” I mutter.
“Tell me,” he says quietly but fiercely, his hands drifting over my back in a lulling, sensual circle.
“Why should I tell you my secrets?” I ask.
He’s quiet for so long, staring up at me, searching my gaze. Finally, he says, his voice rough and hoarse, “Because you know that while I’ve been an ass to you plenty, Kate, I’m safe. You can trust me.”
Our eyes hold as those words sink in. The fearful part of me wants to deny that I somehow know deep down I can trust him, to stop myself from opening my heart to him even a crack. But the brave part of me wants to kick my heart’s doors wide open and run headlong into the notion of a trustworthy Christopher Petruchio and all that’s possible because of it.
“As a gesture of good faith,” he adds, “to prove my point, here’s what I’m prepared to do. When you first came home, and I told you I’d collect payment at a later date, for my silence about what you were up to the night we ran into each other . . .”
My grip on his shoulders intensifies as I remember how deeply he pissed me off that day, towering over me in the foyer on Thanksgiving and threatening to tell on me. “What about it?”
“Well,” he says quietly, his touch wandering higher, his thumbs sweeping so close to the underside of my breasts. “I’ll surrender that.”