Nothing except time together.
Which is a good thing. It’s allowing us time to rebuild the trust between us, to learn each other as we are now.
Even if my body is?—
“You okay, honey?”
I jump as a hand settles on my back and the bowl teeters on the edge of the counter. “Shoot,” I hiss, reaching for it.
But River is reaching too and we bump into each other, both of us missing the catch.
The bowl crashes to the ground, sending dough in every direction.
Unbidden, my eyes well with tears. “Dammit,” I whisper.
“Oh, sweetheart. I’m so sorry.”
I shake my head. “It’s my fault. When someone touches me when I don’t expect it—” My throat goes tight and I crouch down to start cleaning up the mess. “It’s been getting better”—especially with Chrissy and Rory and the others around as often as they’ve been—“but I wasn’t paying attention. I’m sorry I ruined the bread.”
“Tsk. It’s not ruined. This recipe only takes a second to throw together.” She rights the bowl, scoops the remnants inside, and puts it back onto the counter. Then sits down beside me.
I sigh, scrub at my eyes.
She lifts a hand, slowly, making sure I see it, and my heart kicks hard even as shame ripples through me. She’s so damned nice and I’m so fucked up. Her fingers brush mine and then she guides me down so we’re both sitting on the floor, our backs against the cabinet.
This close, I can see the gold specks in her rich chocolate eyes. Her skin is…perfection. A few faint lines around her eyes and mouth, across her forehead, making it clear to the worldthat she smiles regularly, and she positively glows with vigor, her complexion all peaches and cream, the deep brown of her hair the perfect complement—even with the few strands of gray in the mix.
“You’re beautiful,” I blurt and her cheeks go pink.
She waves a hand. “Oh, honey. Those years are far behind me.”
“What are you? Thirty-five?”
A chuckle. “Now you’re just pulling my leg. I’m a decade older than that, love. But thank you for being so sweet.”
I’m not being sweet.
It’s the truth.
But it’s also me going for a distraction so I don’t have to delve into all of the ways I’m so fucked up.
“We should remake?—”
Her fingers squeeze mine. “Wait just a second, sweetheart.”
And, dammit, there my eyes go again.
She sees them, reaching into her pocket and passing me a packet of tissues.
“Thanks,” I whisper, dabbing at the corners of my eyes. “And again I’m sorry.”
“No more apologies.” She sighs and leans back against the cabinets. “It gets better, you know.”
I still. “What gets better?”
“Being scared all the time. Jumping when someone surprises you.” A beat. “Thinking that touch can only be laced with pain.”
“River,” I begin.
