“Can I ask you something?” I rest my warm cheek against the cool glass.
He sips his whiskey. “Sure.” His hair is ruffled and sticking up at the front. His eyelids have dropped to half mast, and his posture is relaxed and open. However, I can’t imagine that, even when he’s drunk, he lets down his barriers, so he might not answer me.
“Why haven’t you asked me to come and work at PAWS?” I’d promised myself I wouldn’t ask, but the wine has loosened my tongue.
He doesn’t say anything. He just studies me thoughtfully.
I swallow hard. “I’ve listened to you, Cullen, and Isla talk about setting up the therapy center for ages. You’ve even discussed what staff you’re thinking of approaching at the Ark in front of me. But you’ve never asked me. And… it stings, a bit. I’d love to help. I think the idea of animal-assisted therapy is fantastic. It would be great to be there at the beginning. But you’ve never asked.” I stop, conscious of the words spilling out of me like frozen peas from a bag, rattling all around the room. My voice is too loud, the tone too demanding.
He moves his glass, swirling the whiskey over the ice, but he doesn’t take his eyes from mine.
Eventually, he says, “You know why.”
They’re the same words he used when I asked why he didn’t want to touch me. I frown. “I don’t, that’s why I’m asking.” How can I make him understand how I feel? “I thought we were friends. We work well together, don’t we? Why don’t you want me there?”
He finishes off the whiskey in the glass and puts it on the table. Then he leans back again.
Usually, there’s something about him that makes me feel as if he’s wearing a suit of armor. A sense of burden and being weighted down. Of restraint and defensiveness. Right now, though, I can sense that he’s taken that armor off. There’s something in his eyes—a lightness. A freedom.
He keeps his gaze on mine. “What do you think I meant when I said I didn’t want to touch you because you were Jude’s girl?”
“That you didn’t think it was polite to touch your best mate’s girlfriend.”
He runs his tongue across his top teeth. “That’s only partly it.”
I’m getting frustrated. My hazy brain is struggling to process the meaning of his words. “I don’t understand.”
“Beth…” He says my name patiently, the word soft in his mouth, tender. “I don’t touch you, and I haven’t asked you to join me at the Ark, because you belong to Jude.”
My heart bangs on my ribs, each beat making my whole body shudder.
“I want to touch you,” he continues. “And I want to ask you to work with me so I can see you every day, because I hate it when we’renot together. I miss you, and every minute we’re apart feels like an hour. I’m in love with you. But I keep my distance, because you’re dating my best friend.”
His gaze is open, honest, and rueful. He means every word.
I’m stunned. I actually thought it was possible he didn’t like me that much, and he hadn’t asked me to work with him because he didn’t particularly want me around.
He’s in love with me?
It’s so shocking that I feel as if a tsunami has risen from the ocean, thundered up the beach, and crashed over my head. It washes the alcohol mist away, and suddenly I’m seeing clearly for the first time. The way he calls in often and stays to chat, even when Jude isn’t on shift. Why he hasn’t dated much since I’ve known him. His careful, restrained manner around me, which I’ve noted because he’s so open and relaxed around everyone else. And the way his eyes met mine on New Year’s Eve across the dance floor. I didn’t imagine it, and now I understand. He was watching me dance with Jude, and the expression on his face before he walked away was jealousy.
He waits for me to say something. When I just continue to stare at him, my brain whirring like a centrifuge, he tips his head back and looks up at the ceiling for a long while.
Eventually, he lowers his head again, massages the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, and sighs. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
“It’s okay,” I whisper.
He lowers his hand. “It’s not. I told myself that wasn’t why I was bringing you back here tonight. You’ve had an argument with your boyfriend, and you’re raw and vulnerable, and this is the last thing you need.”
I finish off my wine and put the glass on the table. “He’s not my boyfriend anymore.”
“Don’t say that.”
“He’s not. He broke up with me, and I thought I’d be devastated, and I’m not. I’m relieved.”
“You’re going to tell yourself that because you’re hurting and your brain wants to comfort you, but in the morning—”
“Don’t psychoanalyze me,” I say softly.
