“Don’t,” he says, storming toward me. I step back as he advances on me, until my back hits the counter. I can’t help but remember not even a month ago being in this very same position—caged inside his arms, his hands planted on either side of the counter, staring me down.
You were always needed.
That’s what he said. I hate that passive sentence structure. I want to know who needed me. I want it to be him. I want to know why he’s looking at me the way I’m looking at him, like he’s searching for solid ground to stand on, like he’s just as lost in this as I am.
“There is nothing,” he says quietly, his hand settling at my waist, “routine or typical about what happened last night. I didn’t leave because you were ‘just some other woman.’？”
I pull back, stunned. “Christopher—”
“Please.” He swallows roughly, stepping closer, his hand massaging my waist, drawing me toward him. “Give me the chance to explain. Don’t go, Kate. Don’t leave.”
Those words do something to me, turn the part of me that’s always been hard and implacable, soft and pliant. I feel warm and willing and a little frightened.
Our eyes hold as I do what I haven’t felt brave enough to do before—reach out when I’m afraid; try, even when I’m nursing wounded pride. I lace our hands together and squeeze his, a reassurance.
“I’m listening,” I whisper.
His eyes flicker; some of the tension eases in his shoulders. “This isn’t an excuse. And I can only promise you I wouldn’t have left otherwise, but it’s up to you to believe me.” His jaw clenches as he stares down at the ground, sighing heavily. “I started a migraine. A bad one. I panicked. I didn’t want to get sick in front of you. I don’t . . . I don’t do that around other people. I’m used to handling it myself. So I took my preventative med and rushed home, and then I slept the whole fucking day somehow and woke up in a panic because I knew how it would hurt you, for me to be gone, for you not to hear from me all day. I . . .” He swallows roughly, tearing his gaze up, finding mine. “I never want to hurt you, Kate.”
The kitchen is quiet, my parents’ voices distant, somewhere deep in the house. Steam curls off the soup on the range. The lights are soft, glowing. I feel like time’s dissolved, like the world’s been paused as I stare at him, my heart flitting like a hummingbird against the cage of my ribs.
Gently, I slide my hands up his chest and feel air rush out of him. I search his eyes, crossing that bridge inside myself from familiar fear to newfound trust. To hope. “I believe you.”
His eyes dart back and forth, searching mine. “You do?”
I nod, my hand circling his pounding heart. “I do. I’m sorry you were hurting so badly. I wish—”
“I’m fine.” Words evaporate on my tongue as Christopher drags his thumb over my bottom lip, his fingertips whispering along my throat, then down, across my collarbone. “After this,” he says quietly. “Let me take you home. Please.”
I bite my lip, a thrill coursing through me. “You want me to come to your house?”
“Your apartment, I meant. In the city.” He leans in as if he’s going to kiss me but seems to stop himself. His eyes dart down to my breasts, and he groans.
“What is it?”
“That damn sweater. Don’t you have anything else to wear? I can see straight to your belly button.”
“I don’t mind if you see straight to my belly button.”
“I mind,” he says darkly.
“Are you two coming?” Mom calls from the dining room.
I smile and shrug. “I’m happy in my sweater, so you’re stuck with it. Now, come on. I’m starving.”
“I’m starving, too,” he grumbles as I gather the salad bowl and tongs, then head for the dining room. “And it sure as hell isn’t for potato soup.”
? TWENTY-EIGHT ?
Christopher
Dinner lasts a lifetime. And it doesn’t last nearly long enough. Because I’m just as desperate for Kate as I’m terrified of what I’m about to do—try something I’ve never done before, something I’ve actively avoided my entire adult life: brutal honesty, naked intimacy.
Emphasis on naked.
It’s taking superhero strength not to think about every erotic thing I want to do with her after this, when I’m sitting between her parents at their dinner table.
A rush of something primal and possessive burns through me as I watch her laugh at a wisecrack her dad tosses into the conversation. Her cheeks are pink from the warmth of the room, her dimples deep, her hair an upswept swirl of chestnut and auburn that I ache to undo and watch spill down her back.