“No,” I say, reaching out a hand. This time it’s Paul who backs away, and for a crazy second I almost want to laugh at how messed up we are. Two completely shattered souls doing a weird approach-and-recoil dance around each other.
“Paul,” I say, grabbing his hand and waiting until he meets my eyes. “Whatever it is you’re thinking, you’re wrong.”
“Sure.” He keeps his face averted, as though to hide his scars from me.
Crap. This is why I shouldn’t let my hormones take hold of me. Every time I do, I do more damage than good.
“It’s me, okay?” I say, releasing his hand and smoothing my tangled hair. “I’m the mess, not you.”
He’s silent for several seconds, his gaze studying my face. I see the exact moment he realizes I’m telling the truth. The second he realizes that he’s not the only one with issues. That he’s not the only one in need of healing.
“Well,” he says, his voice gentle, almost teasing, “that is true. You are a mess. Your hair looks like a nest, and I’m pretty sure your tank top is on inside out.”
I give him an incredulous look, then glance down at my tank top. It looks fine to me, but it’s dark, and I didn’t have my hands all over it the way he did.
“You also don’t look great in red,” he says, getting really into it now as he gestures to my robe. “Stick with pink.”
I let out a horrified laugh. “Seriously?”
He shrugs, although I think I see a hint of a smile.
I lift my eyebrows. “Next time I decide to come save you from nightmare-land, I’ll be sure to wiggle into a cocktail dress and fix my hair.”
He ignores this. “You know what doesn’t look good on me?” he says as he stretches out on his side.
My eyes skim his bare torso. Clothes?
He winks, as though to say he knows exactly what I’m thinking. I blush.
“Blue balls. Blue balls don’t look good on me,” he responds.
I can’t help it. I laugh a little. “Yeah. Sorry about that. Things got, um…”
“Hot,” he finishes for me. “Things got hot as hell.”
I meet his eyes. “Yes. They did.”
“And we stopped because…?”
“Paul—”
“Don’t,” he says on a groan. “I can already tell you’re not going to give me the real story about why you got scared, so just forget it.”
I take a deep breath. “I’ll tell you my issues if you tell me what your dream is about.”
His smile fades. “Don’t. Don’t act like our secrets are the same thing, or a fair trade.”
I press past this. “Have you ever told anyone?”
In answer he flops back onto his back, and I sigh, recognizing the signs of him shutting down.
But he surprises me. “No.” His voice is quiet. “I’ve never told anyone.”
“You’ll feel better if you talk about it.”
He turns his head toward me. “So I’ll feel better if I talk about my bullshit, but you get to keep your issues locked in the vault?”
I open my mouth to argue, but he has a point. “My issues are fresher,” I respond finally.
He snorts. “Well, take it from someone whose issues have been left on the shelf too long. The longer they rot, the more important it becomes that you keep the lid on.”
I feel a little burst of gratification. He’s not exactly opening up, but neither is he tensing up when I get close to touchy topics. And although I’m desperate to keep pressing, I figure it’s better to quit while I’m ahead. I need to draw him out slowly.
So instead of going all shrink-mode on him like I want to, I give him a little smile and start to move toward the edge of the bed. I need to get out of this room before we make a mistake.
His hand touches my knee and I freeze, because the touch is gentle and pleading.
I raise my eyebrows questioningly, but he looks away, pulling back before he can say whatever he’s trying to. I take a guess.