She stared at me, her lips parted, her chest rising and falling with each breath. The air between us felt charged, electric, like the moment before a storm breaks.
"Why?" she asked quietly. "After everything, after ten years of staying away, why now? Why do you suddenly care?"
"I've always cared." The words came out rough, scraped raw. "Every single day, Betty. I never stopped."
"Then why?"
"Because staying away was supposed to keep you safe." I stood abruptly, needing to move, needing to do something with the restless energy building inside me. "That was the whole point. I left because I thought…." I broke off, shaking my head. "It doesn't matter what I thought. I was wrong. Staying away didn't protect you from anything. It just meant I wasn't there when you needed me."
She was quiet for a long moment. "When my dad died."
It wasn't a question, but I answered anyway. "Yes."
"You knew. You knew when it happened."
"Within hours."
"And you still didn't come." Her voice was soft, but it cut deeper than any shout. "You watched me bury him, and you didn't come."
I turned to face her, and the pain in her eyes nearly brought me to my knees.
"I know," I said quietly. "And I will never forgive myself for that. I should have been there, Betty. I should have." My voice cracked, and I had to stop, had to swallow down the guilt that threatened to choke me. "There are a lot of things I should have done differently. But I can't change the past. I can only try to do better now."
She looked at me for a long, searching moment. I didn't know what she was looking for, or if she found it. But finally, she nodded.
"Okay," she said.
"Okay?"
"Okay, you can stay. Okay, you can protect me. Okay, we can try to get through this without killing each other." She stood, gathering her plate and mug. "But I'm not forgiving you, Hudson. Not yet. Maybe not ever. You need to understand that."
"I understand."
"Good." She moved past me toward the sink, her shoulder brushing against my arm, and the brief contact sent a jolt of electricity through my entire body.
She felt it too. I saw her stiffen, saw the way her breath caught, the way her steps faltered for just a second before she kept moving.
But she didn't look back. Didn't acknowledge it. Just set her dishes in the sink and said, "I need to be at the bar by noon. Can your security people work around that?"
"They'll make it work."
"Fine." She turned, crossing her arms over her chest, and the movement pressed her breasts together in a way that made my mouth go dry. "I'm going to take a shower. Do you think you can manage not to walk in on me?"
The image hit me like a punch to the gut. Betty in the shower, water streaming down her curves, her head tilted back, her lips parted...
"I'll try," I managed, my voice coming out in a squeak like a teenager.
She narrowed her eyes at me, clearly catching the strain in my tone, but didn't comment. Just turned and walked toward the bathroom, her hips swaying in a way that I was almost certain was deliberate.
The door closed. The lock clicked.
And I stood there like an idiot, my hands curled into fists, my body aching with a want I had no right to feel.
This was going to be torture.
Absolute, exquisite torture.
I was going to endure every second of it, because being close to her, even when she hated me, even when she kept me at arm's length, was better than being apart from her.
