But I give her a slight glance over my shoulder anyway, for just a moment, and the sight of her takes my breath away. The firelight makes her hair glow gold, and her eyes are dark and steady as she watches me. Her legs are curled up beneath her the way she does when she’s reading, my favorite faux-fur blanket tucked around her like it’s hers to take.
But that’s not what bothers me. What bothers me is that I want her to be mine to take. And when she’s looking at me like that, I can almost believe it’s true. I can almost believe that all I have to do is reach out to pull her to me, to devour her…and that she’ll come willingly.
She continues to hold my gaze as she idly lifts the crystal glass to her lips, taking a tiny sip of Scotch. I vaguely register the clink of the ice cubes in her glass. Ah, so that’s why she left the room—to get ice. It’s sort of a crime, given how much this liquor costs, but I don’t give a shit because she’s here. She saw me at my worst, and she’s here.
I carefully stand before sitting in the seat across from her, and then, because I know I can around her, I close my eyes.
I lose track of how long we sit there in silence, with only the crackle of the fire and the occasional rattle of her ice cubes breaking up the quiet. Both of us know without talking that she’s not here as a caregiver. She’s here as…what? A friend? Something more?
No, not more. When I walked into that bar, she was happy to see me. But not in the way a woman hot for a man would be. She looked like she was fucking proud of me, for God’s sake. Worst of all, her expression when I came to her rescue wasn’t relief. It was worry.
Olivia Middleton cares for me, of that I am certain. She doesn’t want me to get hurt, and more than that, she wants me to heal. But she doesn’t care about me for me, for who I am. And for reasons I can’t bear to explore, that hurts more than my leg and bloody nose combined.
I don’t open my eyes when I hear the rustle of her standing up, nor when I hear the door close quietly behind her. Apparently her patience for sitting with a pathetic invalid has its limits.
I take a large swallow of Scotch and tell myself I don’t give a shit. I tell myself that I want to be alone and that I need to get used to being alone. Although I’m half terrified that if she leaves—when she leaves—being alone will no longer be a respite. It’ll simply be lonely.
Five minutes later the door opens again. I don’t look at her as she approaches. I don’t want her to read the relief there.
Olivia doesn’t reclaim her spot on her chair. This time she settles on the arm of my chair, her small, perfect ass just inches from my arm. I tense. What the hell is she up to?
It finally registers that she hasn’t come back in empty-handed. She takes my drink from my hand and sets it on the table. I let her.
My eyes watch her hands as they dunk a clean white washcloth into a bowl of steaming water. I watch her long fingers wring it out. I’m bracing myself for what’s to come, even as I long for it.
Neither of us meets the other’s eyes as she slowly reaches out a hand,
She hesitates an inch away from my face before softly, carefully setting the warm washcloth against my skin. I let my eyes close once more.
She wipes gently at the cut before dipping the cloth back into the bowl. The process repeats. Dunk. Wring. Hesitate. Touch.
I don’t miss the fact that she’s careful not to touch my scars. I don’t blame her.
Finally she drops the cloth back into the bowl, although she doesn’t move off my chair. “I don’t think your nose is broken,” she says, finally ending our silence. “But I’ll get you some ice.”
She shifts her weight as if to get up, and I’m shocked to feel myself reach out with a quick, desperate touch to her leg. Stay. She stays.
The relief I feel at her continued presence doesn’t prepare me for what happens next.