I absorb the idea of Brooke having a complete nervous breakdown. Right here. Right now. Being too distraught to talk or even move after I’ve divulged my deepest feelings for her.
Will I be permitted to visit her in the hospital while she’s under clinical observation? Surely the staff won’t know exactly why she’s in there. That is, if she isn’t talking . . .
Reaching out, I brush my fingers against the back of her wrist. Her eyes follow my calming gesture. “I see how hesitant you are, Brooke, but I also see how you relax around me. How playful and fucking adorable you get when we’re together, and not just when you’re pissed. Though I do enjoy that version of you a good bit.”
Her head lifts. She winces at the memory. “Christ, that hangover was epic. I thought I was dying.”
We share a brief, quiet laugh. Hers more fleeting than mine. She’s still too anxious to soften for me.
I slide my fingers lower and gently squeeze her hand. “I know I ask a lot of you. I know I have since the beginning, but I think you rather enjoy yourself when you stop thinking so much about what this is and just fucking be with me. Stop thinking, Brooke.”
“I can’t,” she whispers, tugging her hand away, her gaze drifting to the table. “I can’t stop thinking. Trust me, I’m trying, okay? But it’s not happening. Not today.” She bites at her lip and slouches against the back of her stool. “I just need . . .”
“A minute?” I suggest, drawing her eyes back to my face. I faintly smile.
I hear you, baby.
She stares at me, frowning. “Yeah,” she replies through a small nod, her voice incredibly quiet. “A minute.”
I push at her cup, sliding it closer.
An offer of coffee and company, minus the conversation. Somehow I think this is a better option for Brooke rather than what I’ve been working around to this entire time.
Talking until she understands how ridiculous her worries are. How she doesn’t need to label us if she doesn’t want to yet, just as long as she acknowledges and admits to everyone in this bloody coffee shop that she is mine as much as I am hers. Once she’s done that, we can take her announcement to the street, let the general population know. Venture out to neighboring cities and alert the media . . .
Okay, maybe that last part is a bit of a pipe dream. I’ll be fucking ecstatic with one broad declaration to the masses.
Or to me. Hearing her tell me will be enough.
Brooke regards the coffee, her expression soft and timid. Finally reaching out with both hands, she brings it to her mouth and takes a long sip. I do the same with mine, watching her, wanting to be closer so I can smell her hair and that vanilla cupcake body lotion she slathers on herself.
She turns her head and reveals the long slope of her neck. Her pale throat.
Desire hums in my blood.
Fuck, I love kissing her there.
I swallow a heaping gulp of coffee.
She needs a minute? I need a bloody minute.
Clearing all indecency from my thoughts and willing my cock not to react, I watch her dimple cave in with her next sip.
Time passes. We embrace the silence between us, only it’s not contented or easy like it’s always been. I can practically hear her mind analyzing and overanalyzing, considering labels and then dismissing them with dishonest perception.
I have to bite my tongue to keep from speaking. I know how easily I can shoot this nonsense down. How concluding my argument is.
I’m in love with you. We’re damn near perfect together, and you know it. Stop fighting this and come home with me.
Brooke taps on the side of her cup and stares between the window and the phone she places in front of her, every few minutes or so noting the time.
I finish my coffee and debate on getting another. I have a feeling my afternoon classes will be demanding and unusually difficult to focus on. Maybe a massive caffeine boost will help. My attention already wanders absentmindedly to thoughts of Brooke when I’m supposed to be instructing.
The curve of her hips. Her cute laugh. The way her tongue always tastes of sugar.