With my back to her, I busied myself by whipping up scrambled eggs with cheese and sourdough toast, and made twocups of tea. I set the food and the drinks on the breakfast bar. “Salt?”
After selecting one of the four stools on offer, she picked up a fork and, looking for all the world like she wished she could jab the tines in my eye, she scooped up some eggs. “Trust me, I’m salty enough. No need for extra.”
She moaned around her fork, and my dick perked up like I hadn’t just ghosted her with a bullshit note. I focused on the food—the first I’d eaten in thirty-six hours—because letting myself think of her was a one-way trip to Hell. I’d fucked up. I knew it. She knew it. The fucking pigeon that woke me by squawking at six a.m. this morning knew it.
“You’re a decent cook.”
“Shame I’m a shitty person.”
Her nostrils flared, and she stared at me for a full ten seconds, then carried on eating. I let her finish in peace, then cleared our plates away.
“I suppose you think I owe you an explanation.”
Picking up her tea, she perused me over the rim. “Never mind what I think. Do you think you owe me an explanation?”
My lips made that soft popping sound as I worked my jaw. Thinking, overthinking, filled with self-loathing.
“I do, yes. The problem is, when you know the kind of man I am, the man Ireallyam,you’ll be on the first flight back to the US.”
Annoyance narrowed her eyes. “You’re pretty sure of that, are you?”
“Yeah.”
“How so?”
“Because I am not a good person, Aspen.”
The way she looked at me as though she was boring through the outer layers of my armor to my shitty fucking soul made mesquirm in my seat. I hid my discomfort behind a large gulp of tea.
“Okay, let me make something clear.” Sighing, she set her cup on the breakfast bar. “I hate being told what I’ll think when you can’t possibly know that unless you’re a mind reader. And if you are, then you’ll know that, as mad as I am with you for bolting, I think I’m a good enough judge of character to recognize a fear response when I see it.” She reached out a hand, cupping my forearm. “You don’t have to talk to me, but, and sorry if I sound like a broken record here, you should talk to someone.”
I let her warmth and kindness seep into me for a few seconds, then rose to my feet. I dumped my half-finished mug of tea in the sink and turned, bracing my back against the worktop. “Unfortunately, I don’t have a therapist couch to hand.”
“Joz.” She sighed again, a slight shake to her head. “In some ways, you remind me of my cousin Johannes, except he hid his pain with cutting responses every time someone got too close, whereas you hide yours with witty humor and brazen flirting.”
“What happened to him?” Was I deflecting? Damn right I was.
“His so-called girlfriend set him up, and the men she hired to rob him slashed his throat. He almost died.”
“Jesus fucking Christ.”
“Yeah. For six years, he cut himself off from pretty much everything, hiding behind the sharpest tongue you could ever have the misfortune to meet. In the end, though, his pain caught up with him, and he had no choice but to lance it.”
“What did he lance it with?”
A soft smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “A good woman.”
I returned her smile. “He okay now?”
“Yeah. It wasn’t an easy ride, but he put in the work. He’s happy, and he deserves to be.” She cupped her hands around her mug of tea and leveled me with a stare. “The question you have to answer is do you want to do the work, or do you want to live the rest of your life with this albatross you’re punishing yourself with strangling you?”
Ouch.
I avoided her eyes. “It’s an ugly story. Unlike your cousin, I’m not the victim, I’m the perpetrator.”
She canted her head. “Caroline?”
Knew she was smart. “Yeah.”
