Boone drops the bag he was holding at his feet and bounds down the stairs to grab my hands. “What are you doing?” He’s looking at me with too much sympathy, and I can’t stand it.
I wiggle out of his hold and rip the shirt over my head, kick my shoes off, and go right for the button on my pants. “Did he do that?”
“Harlyn, it’s just clothes. They don’t have a tracker.” His mouth is curled down in a frown.
“He touched them!” I yell, out of breath for no reason other than I can’t seem to calm down.
“Harlyn.” Boone grabs my upper arms tightly, stopping me from getting my pants the rest of the way off. My chest is heaving, and it’s only now that I realize I’m standing in front of him in only a bra. I flush with embarrassment and fold my hands over my chest.
“Christ, I’m literally going insane,” I snap. I still don’t want these clothes touching my skin, but my brain is working well enough to know stripping down right now isn’t the right idea.
“You aren’t,” he retorts, but I can still see sympathy in his gaze.
“I probably am, but whatever. Did he do that to John? Was it John? Is he dead?”
Boone inhales deeply. “It was John,” he admits but leaves the other questions unanswered.
A rush of air leaves my lungs, and I bend forward enough so my forehead hits Boone in the chest. “This is my fault. I shouldn’t have come here.” Pain and guilt threaten to crumble me. I want to be numb again, but I don’t know how to get it back. I was fine before Boone touched me.
I shove myself away from him and backpedal until my shoulders hit the chilly glass storm door, then I slide down to the floor where I put my head in my hands.
I feel the weight of something land on my back and nearly scratch myself in the effort to get the fabric off my skin, but the musky warm scent stops me. When I look up through watery eyes, my fingers still clutching the fabric near my shoulder, I see Boon crouched in front of me without his T-shirt.
“He didn’t touch that.” His words and voice are soft, meant to be kind, but he has no idea how deeply the gesture touches me. If I wasn’t already crying, I would be now.
“I’m not… usually this… emotional… and chaotic,” I defend, because even as messed up as I am right now, I recognize this isn’t fair to him.
“You mean you aren’t going to stand in the kitchen and strip every time I come down the stairs?” He manages to sound disappointed, which earns a bark of unhinged laughter from me while I shake my head in denial.
“If I knew this was going to happen, I would have at least worn… a cute bra.” I sniffle.
“Cute?” His eyes dip down the tiniest bit, but he catches himself and looks up at the ceiling, giving me privacy. “Cute,” he mutters to himself.
Selfishly, I tug his shirt over my chest then find the bottom hem to slide it over my head. I know I should give it back and put my own shirt on, but I can’t bring myself to do it.
“I’m decent,” I offer, even though I know he would have been able to see what I was doing while he was looking up the way he was.
“Being decent wasn’t the issue, but next time I get to see you without clothes, let’s make it more intentional.” I feel flattered that there will be a next time and slightly chastised that I ruined something.
“I’ll be sure to send a memo beforehand.”
“No longhand correspondence needed, and anytime is good.”
“Except when I’m having a meltdown,” I murmur sheepishly.
“Depends on what kind of meltdown. Far be it from me to stop you from getting naked because you’re irritated with me, or if your sock keeps slipping down in your shoe. That has made me want to throw my boots against the wall, but…” He pauses and looks right into my eyes. “If it’s because you’re dealing with something too fucked up for anyone to face gracefully in the span of twenty-four hours, then yeah. That kind of meltdown needs another treatment.”
“So you’re saying if my socks are quitters, you have a treatment that can solve that?” I sound far too suggestive for a girl on the floor with tears drying on my face.
“I think I could think of something.” He gives me a half smile that does way too much to my hormones. I shouldn’t want to throw myself at him and beg for that treatment now, not when I know the reason would be wrong, well, mostly wrong anyway. It wouldn’t be fair to use him to make myself feel better and forget the hell my world is at the moment.
“I better get some new socks so I can start to ruin them.”
Boone actually chuckles at that while grabbing my hands and hauling me up off the floor. I look over my shoulder, wondering if anyone outside caught a glimpse of me in my bra, sliding down the door. “Ugh…”
“What?” he prompts.
“Public indecency. Not one of my finer moments,” I admit while feeling relieved I can’t see anyone from the front door, and I’m sure anyone out there would still be focused on the entrance and not this unit. When I turn to face Boone, the fact that he isn’t wearing a shirt becomes much more obvious. My mouth goes dry. I don’t even try to offer him the same courtesy he afforded me by looking away. My eyes eat up his skin lazily. The tattooson his arms continue over his chest and seem to fall over his shoulders, but his stomach is bare from the dark markings. His pants are belted low on his waist, showing off his belly button and a line of hair a little darker than the hair on his head. There’s no six pack in sight, but he still exudes strength and virility that is so much more attractive.
