Page 37 of The Betrothal

My head shook; she wasn’t. “You aren’t.”

Her hands sat on the bed in front of me where she leaned towards me. I fisted my hands, tempted, then gently placed my palm over her hand, she was warm, her skin soft under my fingers.

“You aren’t,” I urged.

She looked at where I touched her but didn’t pull her hand from under mine.

How could I reassure her while keeping Benji’s confidence?

“He’ll likely be outside for a while longer. Anyway, I think he likes you. Plus, he isn’t uncomfortable. He’s just an arm’s distance kind of guy.”

An arm’s distance kind of guy? Fucking hell, Sebastian.

“Tell you what. You join me for a…” I hesitated, sizing her up and she frowned. “Rum?”

Her frown turned to a smirk. “Vodka.”

“Wonderful!” I released her, the warmth of her palm noticeably absent the moment I did so. “You join me for a vodka, and I’ll give you the tips and tricks of getting by in the Cavendish household.”

“Cavendish?” She looked briefly surprised. At my puzzled expression, she continued. “Father was great friends with a Cavendish when I was younger. I haven’t heard that surname in forever.” Her eyes softened at a memory, I assumed of her father, before worry replaced it.

I had the overwhelming urge, no, it wasn’t an urge. It was a need to chase away whatever ghosts were haunting her in this moment, so I rose preparing for a distraction.

“Now, I remember we agreed on our smalls being washed together.” I approached the bay window, looking over her collection of clothes hoping this wasn’t all she had. My eyes caught on the shredded knee-sections of a pair of joggers and a dishevelled-looking t-shirt and jumper. The leggings and jumper she’d been wearing today. Another pair of leggings was laid out and a couple of tank tops, plus one long-sleeved shirt.

“I see no smalls?” I looked slowly over the small arrangement again and she huffed at me, making me smirk at my success in distracting her. “But I can give these a go with mine.”

I began collecting the dark joggers, leggings, jumper and top that were clearly worn and she hurried over to me, trying to ease them from my grip, quiet complaints falling from her lips.

I stopped, and she tugged at them, finally ceasing when I didn’t release a single item.

Did she just stomp her foot? I grinned, widely, and her eyes rolled.

“This,” I whispered conspiratorially, “is stage one on the relaxing Ben offensive.”

She straightened, looking like she might argue but then thinking better of it, she released her hold on the clothes.

“Now.” I looked outside then back to her. “It’s officially evening, so I’d say we’d be forgiven for starting with the vodka.”

She was laughing, hard. The movie on pause entirely forgotten.

At some point during a high-octane fight scene she’d begun scoffing, then outright critiquing the sequence. Something I couldn’t help but find entirely adorable. It had taken barely one question before she’d launched into a full detailed breakdown of how someone with extensive grappling experience wouldn’t have allowed themselves to be pinned and beaten in such a way.

Her indignation turned to joy as I followed her complaints with a selection of my own about the more realistic movement capability after taking a baseball bat to the ribs and a bullet to the leg. Now I was three stories deep into some of my most ridiculous patient experiences and she was creasing opposite me.

We sat at either end of the sofa, turned inwards, knees bent, my feet bracketed hers. Not touching, obviously, give the girl some space. A long throw stretched between us. Initially she’d ignored it, but as the evening wore on, and the drinks flowed, glasses cool with condensation, she’d tugged it over her lap.

“You’ve got to be kidding me?” she gasped.

“No word of a lie. By the next time I saw her she had fifteen different patches stuck to her. She was absolutely fine, thank goodness. But when you say a new patch every two days, we all assumed they understood it was a replacement. Poor woman kept complaining that she was struggling to keep them all attached.”

“Oh my God!” Izzy chuckled, then clapped her hand over her mouth, clearly feeling unkind for laughing.

“She was absolutely fine, Killer, don’t feel bad for her.”

Her laugh came more freely and I grinned.

“Anyway, how many men have you put into the doctor’s surgery with your jiu-jitsu?”