With a chuckle, I pull out the stool next to her and dive in.
As per usual, it’s incredible, and I devour everything I ordered in record time.
But when I glance over at Bea, I find her poking at her scrambled eggs with a fork, a look of longing on her face.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, leaning closer as if I’m missing something. “I can call them and complain if?—”
“N-no,” she whimpers. “It’s not that. You don’t need to—” A sniffle cuts off her words.
Goddamn it, she’s crying again. How am I screwing this up so badly?
“Bea, sweetheart, what’s wrong?”
“It’s so good,” she whispers, her voice cracked with emotion.
“Okay, so…”
“I want to eat more. I just can’t.”
I startle as she drops her head into her hands and cries.
“I don’t want to waste it, it’s so good, and there are children out there with n-no f-food, a-and?—”
“Okay,” I say, tugging her bar stool out before gently pulling her to her feet.
Her eyes are red, tears slowly dripping onto her cheeks.
“It’s okay. We can save it and warm it up again later,” I suggest, hoping it’ll pacify her. But it doesn’t help; if anything, it makes it worse. She wails before falling forward into me.
I gather her in my arms and hold her tight as her sweet scent floods my senses and her soft curves press against the hard planes of my body.
The last time we were pinned together this tightly…no, don’t go there, Rett. Now is not the time for your dick to join the party because you’ve got him excited with filthy memories.
Her arms wrap around my waist, and she clings to me like I’m going to be able to fix any of her problems. The sooner she learns that I’m only going to screw everything up worse for her, the better. If she wants a man to make life easier, she really needs to go and look for another.
Just thinking that hurts.
I don’t want another man holding her hair back when she vomits, holding her when she’s feeling vulnerable and emotional, rubbing her feet at the end of a long?—
Holy shit. I’d rub this woman’s feet.
I close my eyes, trying to calm myself down as the realization that I’d pretty much do anything Bea asks of me hits harder than I thought possible.
It’s true, though. I would do anything. She doesn’t even need to ask.
Look at us right now—I’ve practically moved her into my apartment, and she certainly didn’t ask for that.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers against my chest—my now tear-soaked chest. “I lost it for a moment there.”
“It’s okay,” I soothe, rubbing her back all over again.
She pulls back, and when she glances up at me, I find her cheeks are flushed, although I’m not sure if it’s from her outburst or embarrassment because of it.
“I…um…” she says, twisting out of my hold. “I know I’m being irrational, I just, I can’t control it,” she explains as she backs away from me.
“I never asked you to. It was cute.”
“It wasn’t, but I appreciate the sentiment.”
