She recovers quickly, crossing her arms over her body again. Right under the swell of her breasts. Pushing the lush curves up until the thinnest sliver of skin peeks over the sweetheart neckline of her dress.
Don’t stare, Nic. Don’t fucking stare.
But it’s too late. In the grand scheme of things, it’s not a lot of skin. I’ve seen more of a woman working out at the gym without it conjuring a reaction. Hell, the skimpy outfits Mal wears to Sunday dinners atMama’s house show more than Sloane is right now, but it’s still a fight to stop myself from taking it all in—the way each soft globe presses against the cotton of her dress, leaving the slightest impression of her nipples. Two perfect buds that are probably the same color as her lips, visible for anyone to see and feel if she happened to press against them.
James definitely felt that when he kissed her today.
Red clouds my vision, and I will the crystal-clear image of knocking the man’s teeth loose with one hand while the other squeezes the air from his lungs to go back to whatever depths of depravity it came from. I need to get my fucking head checked.
“It’s okay.” Sloane shrugs. “I know what Eric and I meant to each other. Nothing you or my mom say can change that.”
Ouch. Now I’m being compared to the ice queen who forbid her from marrying someone without a trust fund?I lean back and cross my arms, turning her words over in my mind. I decide it’s best not to tell her I’m nothing like her monster of a mother. To remind her that I helped her husband pick out the ring she still wears on her finger and stood up beside them while they promised each other forever with a boulder on my chest and a smile on my face.
Because she made him happy. And he—well, he was everything she deserved. They made sense together. His calm, protective, and gentle nature meshing perfectly with her sharp edges. Sanding them down until it was safe to hold her close enough to see the treasure that was her heart.
The clue Sloane’s just given me for her mood earlier glitters like gold in the crater her words have just left in my chest, and I grasp it with both hands. Letting it pull me out of my thoughts about why she and Eric were made for each other. Of all the good things about him that brought the good out in her. Things I don’t have inside of me, whether by nature, nurture, or just the sheer dumb luck of having Gabriel Alexander’s blood running through my veins.
I flex my fingers, feeling the grind and pull of tendons moving over bone. There’s a faint soreness there. Leftover from slamming them into the hard jaw of the man who dared to touch her, to attempt to lay claim to her when she was…
What? Yours?
I shake the thought free, forcing myself to fill the silence hanging between us even though Sloane doesn’t seem to mind it. “Sounds like dinner with your parents didn’t go too well.”
“That”—she turns on her heel and walks over to the refrigerator to grab two bottles of water—“is the understatement of the year.”
I catch the bottle she slides across the island without taking my eyes off of her. The mask is slipping now, fracturing around the crease in her forehead and letting the faintest stream of anger spill out. Sloane cracks open her bottle and takes a long sip of water while I wait for her to continue or change the subject. I’m not sure which is more likely, since my experience with her venting habits is limited to being the person she needs to vent about. Her gaze slides over mine, and I think—I hope—I’m about to become familiar with them. For some idiotic reason, I want to be a person she trusts enough to vent to. My heart lifts at the idea of being that for Sloane. I can never be Eric: the man to lend her calm, comfort, or peace. But maybe…just maybe I can do this.
Offer her a listening ear.
Give her the gift of righteous anger that matches hers.
Be an avenging angel motivated by the wobble of her chin, driven by the shimmer in her eyes, galvanized by every beat of her heart.
Unbidden, images from the last week flash through my mind. Sloane’s easy smile. The openness of her expression when she looked at me. The rich notes of her laughter when I made a joke she would have pretended not to hear less than a month ago.And I want it.I want to hear about everything that’s bothering her, even if it’s me. My heart beats a frantictattoo, like the possibility of comforting Sloane is too much for it to bear, and then the possibility becomes a reality.
Sloane opens her pretty mouth again and lets it all pour out. With her arms flailing, fists clenched, and nose scrunched, she tells me about her mom forcing her into scheduling dinner then trying to get out of it. When she gets to the part about her mom suggesting she see James in a more personal manner, she blushes, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from asking about the kiss.
“And then she said I embarrassed myself at Eric’s funeral when I cried. Like I should have been concerned about what other people were thinking about me when I wasburyingmy husband.”
A fine sheen of fresh tears shines in her eyes and burns a hole right through me. I stand and round the counter. The need to hold her, to comfort her, drives me forward until I’m right in front of her with my arms open. Sloane gasps as I pull her to me and envelop her in a hug.
“You were perfect,” I whisper against the messy bundle of curls brushing my nose, and it’s the most honest thing I’ve said to her tonight. “The only thing anyone thought about you that day was how amazing you were. No one, not even your mom, could have gotten through burying the love of their life without shedding a tear, Sloane.”
“Thank you.”
She sniffles against my chest. Her arms are wrapped around my torso, and she’s surprisingly relaxed in my hold. I almost smile; all those instances of being unable to keep my hands off of her have paid off in the most unexpected way: Sloane Kent is used to my touch.
My mind is swirling with the realization when she loosens her grip and looks up at me. Her head tilted back, lips upturned like she’s asking for a kiss. A slow smile spreads across her face. And I return it without thinking about it.
“What?”
“You’re being nice to me.”
I roll my eyes. “Is that a problem for you?”
“No.” She shakes her head. “I was just thinking if you keep this up, I might have to stop calling you Asshole Alexander.”
I smile down at the angel in my arms and let the desire to be more to her than the asshole who reminds her of her mother bleed out of the cracks in the mask I’ve been wearing for years. The one that’s hidden the shattered man who watched his best friend fall in love and build a life with the woman who already owned his fucking soul.
