For a moment, he thinks:Let it.
At first he only intends to be nearby if she needs anything. Fights to keep his eyes open, even removes his glasses just in case, and places them on her bedside table. He absolutely will not, cannot, fall asleep next to her.
So of course—he does.
—
Ramona’s still asleep when hewakes up, morning light just beginning to touch down outside. Their bodies shifted during the night, but there’s her hand, still resting on his arm while he lies on his back.
And Nick’s hand, right on top of hers.
Even his subconscious is utterly smitten. He’s relieved she looks healthier than she did yesterday, color returning to hercheeks, mouth tipped peacefully upward. His thumb twitches against her knuckles.
Fuck, it’s going to be brutal to go back to school tomorrow and pretend she doesn’t mean anything to him. He even debates leaving right now, sending her a text or scribbling a note. But she doesn’t have any groceries—he checked her fridge and was appalled—and he’d like a shower himself. So he gingerly slips out of bed and out the door, locking the gate with the code she gave him after her mother left.
When he returns an hour and a half later with a canvas bag full of food, Ramona’s sitting at her dining table with a coffee mug, giving him the most curious look. She’s in a different robe from last night, mauve silk, tied loosely over her pajamas.
“Hey,” he says as he drops the bag on her kitchen counter. “How do you feel?”
“So much better. I can breathe through both nostrils, and my head no longer feels like there are a thousand tiny guys inside operating heavy machinery.” A lift of her eyebrows as she nods toward the bag. “What’s in there?”
Her hair falls softly over her shoulders, and he gets a flash of her in the bathtub, trying his absolute hardest not to stare anywhere but the back of her head. Maybe he showed too much of his hand withI think you look perfect.
Hopefully she doesn’t remember.
“Well, your fridge was practically dystopian.” He unpacks fruits and vegetables, a carton of milk. “I couldn’t let a good kitchen go to waste.”
Ramona presses her lips together as something else falls out of the bag. “Is that a cat toy?”
Okay, so there was a Petco in the same parking lot as theWhole Foods. “I wanted her to like me,” he says. “Or at the very least, be indifferent toward me.”
Nick offers the toy to Janet, who gives it a tentative sniff before dragging it into the living room.
When Ramona settles back in her chair, the robe slips off one shoulder just the tiniest bit, exposing the spray of freckles there.
God.Those freckles make him weak in the fucking knees. And if he’s this close to losing it over freckles, he’s not sure if there’s any hope for him.
The way she’s been with him, completely unguarded…he wonders how many people have seen her this way. How many she’s let in. Because it’s different from how she let him in physically, how she pressed herself to him and moaned into his ear. This feels more precious. Delicate. A privilege.
He thinks back to what Betty said at Halloween. How cruel Ramona’s mother was yesterday, the abuse that’s probably lasted a lifetime. It makes him furious, how people can manipulate her and pretend it’s out of love, revs up a protective instinct he didn’t realize he had.
He knows Ramona can handle herself, but it’s almost painful, how badly he wants to be the one who takes care of her.
She offers him some coffee, her fingers brushing his as she passes him the mug. His heart leaps in his chest.
“What now?” she asks in a low voice. Somehow the question feels much weightier than it should.
Clearing his throat, he tries to focus on the logical part of his brain that’s growing smaller and smaller, the one full of words likejobandtenure. “I thought we could make some brunch. That is, if you have any cookware?”
She groans at that. “I swore this was going to be the year I learned how to cook. I fired the private chef, at least.”
“Fortunately, I’ve picked up a few tips from Audrey.” Nick sets a bag of flour on the counter, lays out a few eggs.
Ramona leans against the counter next to him, the peach scent of her shampoo still an ungodly level of strong. And beneath that, the sweetness that’s purely her. “You know…I can’t remember the last time I had a home-cooked meal.”
He tries to ignore the way that makes him ache. Resorts to humor. “I know this is kind of weird-looking. This is a spatula.”
Before he can react, she snatches the spatula from his grasp and swats his shoulder with it. Oh, hedefinitelydoesn’t hate that, especially when their eyes catch and she does it again.
