So I continue. “I shouldn’t have darted off like that. It’s just—I…”
“Hey.” Claire lays a calming hand on my forearm. “I’m not here to judge you. You can talk to me. As a friend.”
The tightness in my chest dissipates a tad, and is replaced by a flutter in my stomach.
“It’s awkward to talk about.”
“I’m a doctor.” She laughs softly. “I’ve dealt with my fair share of awkwardness. I promise it’s nothing I can’t handle.”
The bench creaks beneath me when I rotate to face her.
Even as I move, her hand never leaves my arm. Her fingers are delicate, and the red paint Bea applied to her nails has chipped.
“I have a lot of baggage. Being a widower and a single dad.”
Her only response is a nod.
“I’ve been through one of the worst things imaginable. In the beginning, I didn’t handle it well,” I admit. “I made poor choices I wasn’t ready for, and I paid the price with guilt.”
Her face remains neutral, her eyes kind and relaxed. Inviting. “That’s understandable. Grief’s a bitch. There’s no one right way to handle it. You don’t love Daisy any less because of the choices you’ve made.”
“I know that now. And I know the grief will always be there,but I’ve worked through the major stuff at least. I was even in a relationship for a short while.”
“Oh?” She tilts her head. “How was that?”
“It’s what I needed at the time,” I reply.
“And what do you need now? What do you want?”
Her face is still open, without a shred of judgment or expectation in her expression.
And damn is it comforting.
My attention drifts to her mouth, plush and supple. “I—I want?—”
Her tongue darts out to lick her lips. “Do you still want to kiss me?”
“Hmm?” My eyes jerk up.
“Do you still want to kiss me?”
“I heard you.” I clear my throat, once again mesmerized by her, by the way her teeth trap her bottom lip. God, how I want to reach out and release it.
How I want to release… many things.
“It’s a yes or no question, Greer. Either you?—”
“Yes.”
My heart takes off at a gallop, and I suddenly wish I’d brushed my teeth.
Too late now.
Claire crawls onto the bed, and I join her. Her shirt rides up her thighs when she tucks her legs beneath her, but I can’t look away from her eyes.
I glide a hand up her arm and rest it at her jaw, my fingers threading through her soft hair.
On her next inhale, I angle forward and press my lips against hers. When she exhales through her nose, her breath tickles my mustache.
