I swirled it in my hand. “Do you not like merlot anymore or something?”
“I do—it’s just been a long time.”
“Sip slow then.”
She took the glass, examining it. “So—you think this will help me eat?”
I lifted a shoulder. “It’s worth a shot.”
We turned our attention to the TV. Despite her efforts to keep it on the down low, I sensed her crying. A few shuddering breaths were a dead giveaway. A twinge of guilt settled in my midsection. I didn’t mean to make her cry. Almost apologized a few times, but decided against it.
Twenty minutes into our show, she set her empty glass on the coffee table; her head tilted back onto the couch.
“So what’s the verdict? Feel like you can eat?”
“Yeah—I honestly do.”
A smile spread across my face. It was exactly what I hoped for. I came back to the couch a few minutes later with some crackers and peanut butter, a Yoplait, and a banana.
“Jack.” She pressed her lips together. “You’re being too nice to me.”
“Good. It’s about time someone was nice to you.”
“But this”—she waved at the small offering before her—“this is too much.”
“It’s processed snacks.”
“It’s more than that.” She shook her head. “I don’t deserve all this.”
Surely, the beautiful woman in my living room did not think she deserved whatever that world class piece of dirt was giving her.
I brought my knee up to the cushion, facing her. “You deserve a lot more. Eat.”
She dutifully grabbed a cracker. We sat back and watched a head chef cuss out participants in a cooking competition. She quietly laughed a few times. I could hardly focus. My brain was preoccupied with her every move, every bite.
Pride and possessiveness unfurled in me. My plan worked. She ate the whole time. Every crumb.
Then she curled into a tiny ball and fell fast asleep.
I flipped the TV off, shamelessly scooting toward her. I stopped a couple inches away and watched. My heart was coming out of my chest. The bruise on her face looked better by the day. But each time I saw it, it reminded me how much I cared about her. How I never stopped caring.
The warmth radiating from her sent a tremor through my body and shallowed my breathing. Disbelief swelled in me. How was I still this affected by Miranda?
I touched her shoulder to wake her, but changed course, allowing my hand to slide down her arm. My brain lost the privilege of commanding my arms and hands. They moved of their own volition, wrapping around Miranda’s limp body and gently pulling her flush against my chest. I knew I woke her because she stiffened briefly then melted back, her hands finding a place over my forearms and squeezing.
She let me hold her and held me back.
Her sleepy hum made me draw a shaky breath.
My blood burned. I dropped my face to the top of her head. Kissed her hair and buried my nose into it. I shouldn’t have, but I lingered there several minutes, breathing in her scent and relishing in the fact she wasn’t pushing me away.
This waswaybetter than the sweatshirt.
Need cropped up in me, until I felt like I was going to rip into a thousand pieces. I decided to test the waters. I moved my hands to her shoulders and gently twisted, leading her body around tofaceme. She turned and brought her knee up onto the couch between us. Her eyes, sleepy and hooded, met mine.
I whispered, my vocal chords taut. “Let me hold you.”
Her nod, almost imperceptible, was permission enough. I slipped my arms around her back and pulled. She came. Soft and molding to my chest. Her head landed against my sternum.Instantly, it was not enough. We were sitting, leaning, with inches between us.
