TWENTY-FIVE
WES
She yelpedon the other side of the door—a quick, startled sound—followed by the scuff of bare feet on hardwood.
The door opened halfway, and Clara stood there in nothing but a towel.
Her hair was wet and wavy, darker at the ends where it dripped onto the terry cloth. Cheeks flushed, skin pink from hot water, collarbones gleaming in the soft light from her bedside lamp. The towel was knotted between her breasts, barely hanging on, leaving her shoulders naked and a long, dangerous stretch of thigh visible where the edge wrapped and overlapped.
My brain short-circuited.
Every sensible thing I’d come up here to say scattered like sawdust in a fan. All that was left was the fact that Clara Darling was half naked in front of me and looking at me like she hadn’t expected me to actually be on the other side of that knock.
Her gaze flicked over my face and paused. The corner of her mouth tilted, small and surprised.
“Your reading glasses are still on,” she said softly.
My hand flew up on reflex, fingers bumping the frame. Of all the things I was suddenly aware of—the quick punch of myheartbeat, the stretch of towel over her chest, the drop of water sliding down the inside of her arm—that was what she went for.
“Right,” I muttered. “Forgot.”
I started to take them off, heat crawling up the back of my neck. She moved faster, lifting her hand and wrapping her fingers around my wrist.
“No,” she said, eyes on mine. “I like them.”
The words were simple. Nothing more than a preference, but they landed like a live wire.
For months I’d seen the glasses as one more reminder that my body wasn’t quite working like it used to. More proof that things were wearing out, falling apart, needing help. She was looking at them like they were ... something else. Like they did something to her that she liked.
A flicker of confidence I hadn’t felt in too long kicked in my chest, small and stunned. Maybe she was into this version of me. Not the blueprint of the guy I’d been, but the one standing here with a metal leg, a scarred brain, and stupid reading glasses halfway down his nose.
I swallowed, pulse pounding where her fingers circled my wrist.
“Clara.” My voice scraped like gravel. “Can I ... come in? We should talk.”
A shadow crossed her expression—caution, uncertainty, the echo of me saying no downstairs. Her grip loosened, but she didn’t move away.
I thought she was going to shut the door in my face. Then she exhaled, long and slow, and stepped back, giving me room.
“Yeah,” she murmured, tightening her hand on the knot of the towel. “Okay. Come in.”
I crossed the threshold into her room, my heart hammering, and shut the door behind me with a soft click. Suddenly the room felt a lot smaller.
Her lamp cast everything in warm gold—bed neatly made, pajamas tossed over the chair. She stood a few steps away, one hand clutching the knot of her towel, the other hovering uselessly at her side like it was looking for somewhere safe to land.
I stayed near the door at first. The wood was solid at my back, something to lean on while my brain tried to remember how to do this the right way.
“So,” she said quietly, gaze flicking up to mine, then away. “You decided to come yell at me about my life choices or ... ?”
A humorless breath left my chest. “No,” I said. “I came to apologize.”
Her fingers tightened on the towel. “You already said good night.”
“Clara.” Her name came out rough and annoyed. I dragged a hand over my jaw, trying to scrape together words that didn’t sound like excuses. “What I said downstairs? That wasn’t because I didn’t want you.”
Her eyes snapped back to mine, wide and searching. The air between us tipped.
“Wanting you isn’t my problem,” I forced out. “It’s ... everything after.”
