A torturously sharp cramp slices through my lower abdomen. I groan and scrunch my face up, trying my best to ride out the pain.
Jesus Christ, I hate being a woman. Don’t we deal with enough already?
I don’t think Duke realises what he’s getting into with my never-ending menstrual cycle of agony. Surely he can’t want this.
‘Shit, hold on, let me get you some water.’ Duke drops the bag back on the bed and dashes out the room. With what seems like superhuman speed, he returns, sitting on the edge of the bed beside me, and handing me a glass of water and the painkillers just in time for my long-ass cramp to end. ‘Here, take these.’
I pull myself up to a seated position with the little strength I have and obey, taking the glass with shaky hands and popping two painkillers into my mouth. The whole time Duke strokes my hair, fingers slipping through the strands. I sigh back into the pillows, resting my head against his shoulder. He shifts so he can put his arm around me, tucking me in closer to his solid chest, letting his warmth cradle me.
‘That looked nasty. You know,’ Duke starts, using his free hand to rub my leg slowly. ‘I heard that orgasms are a great way to relieve cramps too …’
I let out a breathy laugh. ‘Believe me, you donotwant to touch me right now, Duke.’
He angles his head down at me, brows knitted together. ‘Why not?’
I scoff, rolling my eyes, but already there’s a sting at the back of them. I have to look away to blink it away, silently cursing my goddamn hormones for letting my insecurities get to me so quickly. ‘Because I’m a sweaty, bloated mess. I feel, and probably look, disgusting right now.’ Not to mention it’s goddamn embarrassing that even if I did want to do anything sexual with Duke, I probably don’t have the energy even to muster up a moan.
Duke shakes his head, a frown marring his face. ‘You’re kidding me, right?’
‘No …’
‘Cherry, you’re beautiful.Allthe time.’
Shutting my eyes tightly, I slide back down in the bed, hiding myself further under the sheets. ‘You don’t have to lie to me to make me feel better. I’m used to feeling this way.’
But there’s an unexpected adamance in his voice as he says, ‘But you shouldn’t have to feel that way.’ Hardness takes over his features, sharpening their edges, treading dangerously close to the ferocity in his expression I witnessed that time when he rescued me from the diner.
Then Duke’s jumping to his feet and storming out the bedroom. Clattering and scraping sounds from the other room as I lie in bed, waiting. I wonder if for a second maybe I’ve just really annoyed him with all my whining and he’s not coming back. But then he’s marching into the bedroom again, a canvas tucked under one arm, and a small box with paintbrushes sticking out of it under the other. He deposits everything he’s gathered onto hisdesk, jogging back out only to return with another glass of water.
The grocery bags are moved to the floor, and Duke swivels his desk chair around, before he approaches the bed again.
‘May I?’ he asks, beginning to drag the sheets away from my body once I nod, revealing the T-shirt of his I’m wearing, which has bunched up around my waist, and my massive panties that saySundayon them, even though it’s Wednesday. Duke chuckles to himself when he spots them and I just about muster up the energy to grin back.
‘What are you doing?’ I enquire, my smile faltering at the way Duke’s admiring my body, something like wonder shining in his eyes as I lay there on my side. It’s so at odds to the thoughts in my mind.
His eyes flick back up to me, keeping hold of my gaze as he lowers himself into his desk chair and picks up the canvas and a pencil. ‘I can’t understand how you could possibly think you’re not beautiful right now, because you are quite literally the most exquisite thing I have ever seen in my life. Even the finest painting in the world wouldn’t come close to rivalling your beauty, Cherry. In fact—’ Duke crosses one of his legs over the other, giving himself somewhere to rest his canvas ‘—your beauty is so compelling that it’s my favourite thing to paint. Have I ever told you how many times I’ve painted you since you came back this summer?’
My lips pop open. ‘You – you painted me?’
‘Like I said – painting’s my favourite kind of therapy. And I had alotof feelings about you to work through.’ He shoots me a grin, and it goes straight to my heart. Warmthkindles in my chest at how easily these admissions are coming from his lips – at how lucky I am to be the one to witness such from the man who rarely gives anything away. ‘Are you comfortable? I’m gonna need you to stay like that for a while.’
Nodding, completely at a loss for words for what is happening right now, I snuggle further into the mattress and pillows, watching Duke’s deft hands get to work on the canvas.
All those times I found one of his napkin sketches of me in the bar, I wished I could truly be his muse, not just something to draw to pass the time. If only I’d known the true reverence behind each of those pen strokes, the sheer power that comes from being marvelled at by Duke as the subject of his art.
‘I know you struggle to like this side of yourself that you think is weak, but you gotta remember that no one is strong all the time. This pain you feel, it’s not your choice, it’s not your fault, so you don’t have to deal with it alone. You’re allowed to let others take care of you, to give you the love you need on the days when you can’t find enough for yourself. It doesn’t make you weak – it just makes you human.’
‘You’re always strong,’ I respond, trying to ignore the tears welling again already. Especially as another cramp burns between my hips, this time slightly less intense, hopefully owing to the painkillers starting to kick in.
Duke laughs – despair underlining the sound. ‘No,’ he shakes his head, ‘I’m not. Believe me.’
I know there’s parts of him he hides away, that he plays the shoulder for everyone else in Willow Ridge, becauseit’s easier. But he’s slowly letting me see between the cracks of that façade, and somewhere behind them lay the Duke that’s willing to take a risk on us.
‘When do you ever need taking care of?’
He’s silent for a long stretch of time, forehead creased as his gaze flicks between me and the canvas. A few pencil strokes later and the hardness in his face dissolves. ‘There’s three days in the year when I usually need someone the most. December eighth – the anniversary of my father’s death, May twentieth – Mom’s death, and July thirtieth – Grandfather’s. It’s not like grief doesn’t hit me on other days but those are the hardest. The ones where I can’t help but count up the years that have gone by, wondering who’s next. Wondering how I’ve kept going without them. Wondering if I’ll ever stop worrying.’
My brows shoot up. ‘Duke, tomorrow’s July thirtieth.’
