She smiles, that warm, soft, knowing smile. Nods, and reaches for my crutches, not my prosthesis. I can’t help but return her warmth. It’s as though she’s read my body language and anticipated that I don’t want to put my prosthesis back on after the long night at the castle. And I might love her a little for it. For other things, too.
When we’re upstairs, she lets me lead the way into my bedroom, holding back for me to enter first. The little considerations she makes aren’t lost on me, and it makes me even more furious at her father for being such a condescending prick. He has no idea the amazing woman he has for a daughter.
Before meeting her, the article I started drafting would’ve written itself—angry op-ed about nepotism, the Morrigan name, her father’s chokehold on women’s rugby.Easy clickbait. But now it feels wrong on a cellular level. Pete and my boss pushing at the ball confirmed it’s not right.
Every time I open the document, or even think about it, all I see is her face, the way she defended her teammates, the quiet strength she hides behind sarcasm. I’ve turned all of that into a story for people to chew on.
The fissure inside my chest is widening. My loyalty to the publication, to my job, my career is crumbling.
Getting the story out has never been this hard. And the story’s there, almost begging to be written and I… I can’t.
Rhiannon is so loyal she’d never let me publish it, even if she admitted to agreeing with what I’ve written. And for thefirst time in my life, someoneis more important than the story. I’m not sure what to do with it to be honest. Is this what normal people feel like?
By the time I get to the bed, my thigh aches. I might need to rain check on the whole sleeping with her thing. It seems I overdid it on the dance floor. I’d say I have no regrets—I loved having her pressed against my body, head tipped back, wide smile on her face—but I really want to be inside her. So, I kind of do have regrets.
As if she senses my hesitation, she presses her palm to my back as I lean on my crutches. “You okay?”
It’s tempting to say I’m fine, tempting to push through, push past, and do it anyway. If it wasn’t something that impacted her, I’d do just that. Emma smacks me for it all the time. But I want things to be just right for Rhiannon, to give her everything she deserves and more. And right now, I’m not sure I can. So, I plop my ass on the edge of the bed, shake my head, and tell her the truth. “I’m exhausted.”
Not just from the day or the dance floor, I’ve been sleeping less lately. Coffee and deadlines are a toxic mix, but it’s easier than facing the silence when I close the laptop.
Everything is exhausting, especially pretending I can juggle a job that eats people alive and a woman who makes me want to live. The two things don’t coexist. They never have. But maybe this time, I wish they could.
CHAPTER 39
Robert
This is where she sees just how weak I am. I avoid meeting her gaze; I can’t bring myself to even look at her face to see if I can tell what she’s thinking. I couldn’t stand to disappoint her.
Instead of sighing, getting impatient, or looking disheartened, she simply nods. “I had a feeling. “Rock the Boat” isn’t exactly the easiest of dances for those even without a disability.” She laughs. “But if you’re happy to lie back and take it, I’m happy to do the work.”
My dick points due north like the needle of a compass, but it takes my mind a beat to catch up. Did she really just offer to take care of me?
How long has it been since someone’s taken care of me? Has anyone ever?
For some reason, that makes me feel even worse. It’s like she’s every bit as horny as my dick, which is very clearly tenting my tracksuit bottoms for both of us to see. But I’m driven to check all the same. “I don’t want to do anything that isn’t comfortable for you, Rhiannon.”
She flashes me a wicked smile as she shimmies my shortsoff her long, lean legs. “Just you let me worry about getting myself comfortable. Let me take care of you.” Her eyes implore mine as she cradles my face in her gentle hands.
My stomach knots. What if I like it too much? What if I get used to it, and then she leaves?
She gives my cheeks a squeeze, and my walls crack. “I don’t remember the last time anyone did that.” There’s a lump growing in my throat. “I’m not sure I know how.”
For so long, I’ve had to take care of myself because my injury felt like such a burden on those I loved that I couldn’t ask for help. My suicide attempt filled me with such a deep pit of shame while it filled my family and friends with a well of fear, that I couldn’t tell them how I really felt. Every bad day had to be masked; every depressing thought or inclination had to be hidden.
“I want it as much as you do, Robert. And if that means I have to get on top this time…” She shrugs. “I think I can take one for the team.”
This time.
She’s already thinking about the next time. Did she mean it? Or was it a slip of the tongue?
I don’t have long to think on it, because she moves to pull my shirt off her body.
“Wait.”
She freezes.
“Leave it on for a little bit.” I give her a sheepish smile, my face heating.
