“Okay,” I tell myself, as I try to regulate my breathing. “You are fine. Your pride is a little wounded that Christopher wasn’t around when you woke up and didn’t pull another stealthy pastry delivery or reach out all day. But that’s all right. You’re an adult. You can just move on.”
Meow, Puck says. I scoop him up and cuddle him close, comforted by his rumbling purr.
“Okay, maybe not move on,” I admit to Puck. “I can have a conversation with him about it, though. I. Can. Communicate! I can put on my badass big-girl pants and talk to him. And until then, hopefully make his eyes bug out of his head with this very flattering sapphire-blue, plunging-V-neck sweater.”
Meow, Puck agrees.
“Well, now it’s sapphire blue and covered in your white fur.”
Puck plops his head on my shoulder and purrs happily. I glide my hand down his fur in rhythmic, soothing strokes and take a deep breath. “I’ve got this. I can do this.”
Meow, Puck says, and with that encouragement bolstering me, I yank open the door.
Christopher stands on the porch with a small bouquet in his hand, a canvas bag in the other.
He’s in an emerald-green long-sleeve thermal that hugs his thick arms, expensive-looking dark-wash jeans, and saddle-brown lace-up boots. His hair is wet and a little messy, like he just got out of the shower, the waves curling around his jawline. I take a steadying breath and catch his scent, woodsy candle smoke and spice.
Not that it’s affecting me.
Not that I’m remembering when I sank my teeth into his neck like an animal last night and tasted that scent on his skin.
He clears his throat, then says, “Can I come in?”
I clutch the door, because the world feels like it’s tipping. “You always let yourself in. Why are you asking this time?”
His eyes hold mine. His throat works in a swallow. “Because they’re your family first, and if you didn’t want to see me, after last night, well, this morning—though I promise I can explain myself—if you didn’t want me here, I didn’t want to force myself.” He’s quiet for a moment, before he says, “I want you to let me in, Kate, but only if you want to.”
I’m as frightened as I’ve ever been, standing on more than one threshold—not just this physical space but one in my heart. I want to trust him so badly. And I’m so scared he’s going to break my heart before he even knows how long he’s had it.
I have hated Christopher Petruchio for so long not only—not even primarily—for his distance, his aloof superiority, but because it hurt so badly to be rejected and pushed away by someone I cared about.
But I’m Kate Wilmot. I’m a globe-trotting badass who doesn’t shirk risk or avoid a challenge simply because it might end badly. I’m brave in so many other parts of my life. I’m going to be brave now, too.
Slowly, I ease open the door and step back. “Come in, then.”
Christopher crosses the threshold. Our eyes hold as he steps closer and his fingertips brush mine, the lightest touch that makes a shiver race up my arm. “Thank you,” he murmurs.
“Christopher!” Mom calls from the back of the house. “What on earth were you knocking for? Come in!”
Christopher shuts the door behind us and follows me into the kitchen while I keep clutching Puck like he’s a life raft.
Carefully, Christopher sets the bouquet, then his bag on the counter, unloading a bottle of chilled white wine and a beautiful loaf of rustic bread whose crust glows golden, intricate leaves carved into its surface. Then he pulls out a small container whose sound immediately sends Puck leaping from my arms.
I watch Christopher crouch and set a handful of treats on the ground for Puck, who gobbles them up like he’s been on a starvation diet.
Empty-handed, I focus on brushing Puck fur off of me, eyes averted so I can’t watch Christopher pet Puck as he purrs loudly, so I won’t feel that awful mushy warmth flood my heart.
When Christopher stands, brushing off his hands, he glances up at me, then does a double take. I think, with Puck gone from my arms, he’s finally clocked the neckline of my sweater.
Avoiding his eyes, I step up to the refrigerator and open it, grabbing components for the salad I was going to contribute to dinner.
“What the hell are you wearing?” he asks.
I crack open the container of greens and add some to the salad bowl. “This would be a sweater, Christopher.”
“A sweater,” he mutters to himself, setting the bread on the cutting board and reaching for a knife from the knife block.