“It’s fine, Andrew.” His insides clenched at that name. Fuck, he wanted to tell her.
“It’s not fine. I… We… First, the stairs and, after passing out like a goddamn—”
“It was good,” she said, the smile still there, her eyes even warmer, her side snugged tighter into his. “It was really, really good.”
“Yeah?”
Another smile, hidden behind her mug. “Yes.”
Not bothering to suppress a grin, he nodded, looking out at the yard. Jesus, was this how normal people felt after sex? Like singing? Howling? Grabbing her and hauling her right back to those stairs?
But then there’d been the night, where, Jesus, he really could have hurt her—completely beyond his control.
“Are you okay?” he asked, suddenly sure that the softness around her eyes was from crying, not sleep. He was quiet, already defeated, when he said, “I scared you.”
“Scared me?” she asked, blinking.
“Last night. My…” Christ, what would you call them? Episodes? “Nightmares.”
“You didn’t scare me, Andrew; you…worried me. There was nothing I could do.” Her hand squeezed his, and they lapsed into silence.
“No, no, you helped.”
“You remember?”
“I remember feeling you around me.” Why was it so hard to admit that?
“I’m glad,” she said with a gentle smile, and Christ, he’d get lost in those eyes if he let himself.
With a yawn, she turned back to look at her yard and seemed to disappear into her head.
“Got plans for today?”
She shrugged. “Work on the garden.”
“Want some help?”
“Yeah? That would be lovely.”
“Thought maybe I’d go into town for some supplies. Then I’ll come back and help.”
“I’d like that,” she said. And then she kissed him, her openness and joy crumbling yet another brick in his wall. It should have worried him, the way she pulled him apart, because without that wall, he’d have no defenses against all the shit he knew lurked in the world.
It should have worried him, but right now, with her…it didn’t.
* * *
George had spent the hour or so before Andrew had gotten up going over the things that had happened in the night. He’d screamed. Screamed and freaked out, pushed her away when she’d tried to hold him, and then flung himself onto the floor. She’d followed him down, had taken forever to calm him, and finally wrapped her body around his and held him as he’d fallen into a hot, fitful sleep. It wasn’t until much later that she’d recognized the danger of the situation—this big, powerful man out of control in his sleep. He could have hurt her—badly.
And yet, she couldn’t seem to get worked up about her safety. What worried her, truly, was him. How powerless was she, here all alone, with no weapons against whatever was haunting him?
She’d wanted to help him. She still did, but now… After sleeping with him, after seeing his body wracked with fear and pain, and now, after toast and coffee and normal talk, something had changed. The do-gooder in her didn’t feel quite so good anymore, and after he’d left for whatever it was he wanted to do in town, the feeling overwhelming her was the shame of betrayal.
Fueled by a sick sense of responsibility, she stomped over to Jessie’s house and knocked on the door. It was still early, but her neighbor must be up. Didn’t people with kids rise at the crack of dawn?
“Hey,” Jessie said, looking only half-awake. “Come on in.” Jessie led her into the kitchen. “Geez, girl. Look at that thing,” she said, indicating George’s enormous mug. Across the front, BEER was spelled out in tall letters. “Bit early for that, isn’t it?”
“I have a thing about mugs.”
