“Just this?” I repeat, as an ache formorenearly suffocates me.
“Something casual,” she explains, tracing a finger over one of my swallows. “I’ve never been good at guarding my heart, but you make it look so easy.”
Do I?When I can finally respond, my voice is a husk. “I guess practice makes perfect.”
At my tone, her expression shifts into something apologetic. Shy. “Am I wrong? It’s just… you called yourself a one-night-stand expert once, and that’s exactly what I need right now. A break from constantly hoping my next kiss will lead to forever.”
Her words scrape me hollow, but her eyes are so determined that I can’t tell her the truth. That keeping everyone at arm’s length has been easier than breathing—until her.
“If that’s what you need, then that’s what I’ll be. One emotionally stunted asshole, at your service.”
It’s supposed to be a joke, but I guess my delivery needs work because her eyebrows knit together before she tentatively reaches for my hand.
“For the record, I don’t think you’re an asshole. Or emotionally stunted. But maybe…”
She bites her lip, hesitating. “At dinner, Henry mentioned youmight understand what it’s like to be hurt by your family. Is that why you’re so good at protecting yourself?”
God. Not for the first (or hundredth) time, I wish I could tell her everything. But it’s just a selfish impulse to feel less alone. The fact is, I’m not a victim, and I’m not about to give Gracie a fucking sob story. Not when I’m the only person my mom trusts with the truth. There’s simply too much at stake.
“Whatever I’ve experienced is incidental,” I finally say, but even this barest admission is more than I’ve ever said to anyone outside David’s office.
“In other words, ‘don’t worry about me,’?” she says softly, pressing a finger to the cleft in my chin.
I capture her hand and kiss her fingertips. “Exactly. I’ve given you enough to worry about.”
“So the caretaker doesn’t like being taken care of.”
My mouth is on her wrist now, slowly moving up her inner forearm, hungry to give her the one thing she wants from me. The one thing I’m good for. “If you’ve got the time, I’ve definitely got some aches you could take care of.”
She makes a soft sound but then freezes. “Shit.Time.”
“Just a construct,” I murmur into her skin.
“No, no,” she says, sitting up quickly. “What time is it right now?”
My brows pull together. “Around seven, I think?”
“Nooo,” she groans, but before I can ask what’s wrong, she spills Wite-Out on all my thoughts by practically falling out of bed naked, glorious in the morning sunlight.
“I have to go—I’m so late!”
“What are you late for at seven a.m.?” I say after managing to sweep two brain cells together.
“It’s this thing for my mom’s birthday party,” she explains, rushing to pull on her clothes. “She wants the Patriots’ mascot there for the kids, which, obviously, I couldn’t make happen. But I found a guy with a retired costume in Woonsocket, and unfortunately, this was the only time he could meet.”
“Wait, I thought you said you weren’t close with your mom,” Isay, trying to parse this new information. “Why are you planning her birthday?”
She’s rebuttoning her shirt at light speed with a hair tie in her mouth as she mumbles, “It’s complicated.”
The words are so familiar, I nearly have to laugh, despite knowing what kind of mountains they can blanket. But instead of interrogating her, I put a mental pin in it and get out of bed.
“Can I help with anything?” I ask as she steps into her shoes. “Do you want food for the road?”
But she’s paused midmotion, staring at the lower half of my body. I glance down at my boxer briefs and white T-shirt, but apart from the semi I’m already sporting from her tumble out of the sheets, nothing’s out of the ordinary.
“No,” she squeaks. “I’m fine.”
At her flustered response, a rough, empty sort of satisfaction curls in my stomach. I may be the worst thing for her, but at least I know she still wants me anyway. “In that case, I guess I’ll see you later?”
