“I-I didn’t know… Oh my god, I’m sorry. This is the last place I should have come. You… You were just leaving, and I’m interfering with that.” Despite my sudden urge to run, that hand of his stays where it’s at, holding my head up while I try my damnedest to keep my emotions in check. I’m seconds away from shoving his hand to the side and dropping my chin.
“I was only heading out to get a few groceries,” he says before his voice drops. “Emory, you can always come here, but that doesn’t explain why you’re on my doorstep with a goddamn suitcase.”
I want to bypass his question and drown in the warmth of his eyes, in the heat of his affection and protection.
“He kicked me out,” I explain. “I was talking to him about the cake issue, but it eventually turned into a discussion about our relationship. I told him about the kisses—about you. It was going to come out eventually, and I didn’t want to hold it in and lie about it.”
“There’s no reason you should have to keep it in. You did the right thing.”
I nod. “I stood up for what I wanted at the tasting and walked out. Then I waited for him to get home so we could discuss it, but…” I roll my eyes, trying to ignore the soreness in them. The entire time I packed my stuff, I cried silent tears. I’m sure my eyelids are rimmed red and inflamed. “I couldn’t take it anymore—not being listened to and heard. The wedding is off.”
He observes me as his hand slowly moves from my chin, his soft palm smoothing over my cheek. I lean into him, because Ican’t help myself. I want to steal every good thing about him, every little action and attribution that adds to this sensation swirling in my stomach—the one that tells me this is exactly where I’m meant to be.
“Did he agree with your decision?”
“What do you think?” I ask in a whisper. “He didn’t give either one of us the time for it all to really sink in. Not that I necessarily wanted to stay, but I thought he’d at least be somewhat decent about it and give me time to figure things out.” I swallow down the reality of my situation, which is that… “I have nowhere to go.”
“That’s not true,” Dawson murmurs. “It doesn’t matter to me that we still have a lot to learn about each other. What matters most is that I feel you in here.” He makes a fist and presses it to his chest. “And I’ve never fucking felt that before, which means you arealwaysmore than welcome here.”
This raw understanding slips through me, brandishing me with Dawson’s truth, with his words, and all the potential promises they hold.
Dawson doesn’t say anything else.
He acts.
He reaches down to pick up my suitcase with one hand and intertwines his other with mine before tugging me into his apartment and letting the door fall shut behind us.
And relief fills me. Because even though my life feels like it’s falling apart, it’s almost like this was always meant to be—me showing up at Dawson’s door and him welcoming and accepting me with arms wide open.
18
DR. DAWSON COLE
Isteep a tea bag into a mug and listen for the bedroom door. It’s at the other end of my apartment, but my senses zero in on it so much that I barely see what I’m doing in front of me.
I told Emory that the room is hers until she feels comfortable sharing space with me. She knocked that notion down straightaway and told me I wasn’t going to be sleeping on the couch.
Shock wound through me the second I saw her outside of my door, but then it was quickly replaced by a level of irritation that I don’t think I’ll ever be able to explain.
Seeing her suitcase… That look on her face.
I’m not a violent man, but I don’t do well when the people I care about are hurting, and I can see on Emory’s face that there’s pain there. That her heart is going through something.
The creak of the door sounds. I need to oil the hinges, but it hasn’t bothered me enough to make it a priority. The fact I’ve pushed it off for so long allows me the chance to see her before she notices I’m looking in her direction.
Her red-brown hair is tied up into a messy bun, one that I wonder was tied back in the quickness of packing a fewessentials. Her cheeks, normally rosy, are pale in comparison and there’s a slight redness around her eyes that I fucking hate seeing.
She walks across the apartment, clothed in a beige thermal set—as she twists her hands close to her chest. Does she think coming here was a mistake?
But then her body visibly relaxes, and she gives me a small smile as she scoots onto one of the stools by the two-seater island.
“I made you tea,” I tell her, using the string to lift the bag from the mug before setting it on the counter. I walk around the island so I can be on the same side as her. “It’ll help calm your nerves.”
That smile she gives me turns into a nod, but it’s reserved, and I can’t help but want to reassure her. I never want her questioning a damn thing when she’s in my presence. Too much has happened, and I don’t want to be another Lance for her.
She wraps her hands around the mug when I extend it to her, and I reach forward, gripping her chin with my forefinger and thumb. I make sure she’s looking at me when I say, “You did the right thing by coming here.”
“Daws—”
