Her fingers jerked against his chest, but her lips pressed a soft peck on his shoulder, just beside the bullet wound. He'd tell her about that, about all of it, eventually. The idea of keeping anything from her was ludicrous. And so unlike his relationship with Liv, which had died at the hand of secrets.
Tonight had been the first night he didn't drive to Liv's neighborhood in over six months, and he hadn't even thought about it till now. Thinking of her tended to stir up a turmoil of conflicting emotions. But at the moment, all he felt was a dim ache somewhere behind his heart.
“Do you love her? Is that why you were on my porch?”
There were no quick responses to that. “I'm going to delay the answer to your last question because we're both tired. As for the first, I like to think of it as a seven-year fever.” Which had burned into a hotheaded, delusion-inducing illness.
His admission hovered in the darkness, smothering like a miasma he'd accidentally let in.
Her quiet voice scattered the thick air. “My fever lasted fourteen years.”
Fourteen years. That sleazy asshat didn't deserve fourteen seconds with her. “You know how to treat a fever?”
“Mm. I'm too tired to think of something witty. Go ahead.”
“Rest and lots of fluids.” He lowered his voice. “Obviously, not at the same time.”
“Oh my God.” Her groan dissolved into a soft lullaby of laughter. As it whispered through him, he realized the reason his days felt so empty was because they hadn't been filled with that sound.
He touched his lips to the top of her head, grinning. What a sentimental asshole.
For the second time that night, he waited for her breaths to tumble into sleep. This time, they did, pulling him along with a smile on his face.
The next morning, he woke wearing that same damned smile. But it didn't last. He was alone in the bed and the loft.
He shot up, his feet tripping over the floor. Only he wasn't tripping on a goddamned thing. Not a shirt or a magazine or a discarded pack of cigarettes in sight.
Fuuuuck. She'd been up for awhile.
The bedside clock read 10:43. He released a relieved breath. It was still early. He raked his hands through his hair. That was early, right? Jesus, what time did she normally wake?
He dug through the hamper, pulled out a pair of jeans, sniffed them, tossed them, and dug again until he found a fresher pair. Laundry was on the agenda at some point in the near future.
Tugging on the jeans, half-walking, half-hopping, he didn't bother with the zipper or button as he sharpened his attention on the stifling quiet downstairs. Would she have left? Could she?
A rush of blood heated his neck and face, his fingers curling into his palms. He plucked a toothpick from a holder on the dresser and sprinted down the stairs.
Halfway down the stairs, the scent of lemon and bleach reached Van's nose. Damn, damn, damn. He quickened his descent on silent feet. At the bottom, his gaze landed on the shiny kitchen counters, small appliances and canisters sparkling in a neat row, and Amber's ass hanging out of the fridge in her bend to scrub the deepest corner.
He pinched the bridge of his nose and let his frustration wave off his back. As much as he loved the sight of her in those little shorts cleaning his house, he wanted her to do it for him, not for her illness.
Shoulders back and chest out, he moved to the kitchen with heavy, wide steps. By the time he reached her, she was organizing condiments in the fridge door.
She spun when his footfalls landed behind her. He held his head down, his hand casually rotating the toothpick in his mouth. When her toes flexed against the tiles, he removed the pick, slowly placing it on the counter, and gave her the full force of his eyes.
She tensed, her pupils widening, her lips pinched in a line. The overhead light reflected a metallic glow around her, her dark hair freshly washed and dried. She drew in a lungful of air and grinned with overly bright eyes. “Morning. Sleep well?”
Apparently, he'd slept too well. He hadn't even heard her shower or run the hairdryer. But did the little vixen really think her pleasantries would distract him from the hand that was adjusting the mustard label in the fridge door behind her?
He stifled the laugh bubbling up inside him. Jesus, from the booty shorts and tit-hugging tank top to the fluttering eyelashes and saucy attitude, the whole package was cute as fuck. And defiant.
“Best sleep of my life. You?” He turned away, feigning disinterest in his now spotless kitchen, and reached into the overhead cabinet. His bare feet didn't stick to the tiles like they usually did. She'd been awake for a long-ass time.
“I slept well.” She hadn't moved from her position by the fridge. If she was wary of him, she had every right to be.
He removed a box of Froot Loops and opened the package with intentional slowness as his mind sped through the next ten steps. “Have you eaten?”
“Nope.” A casual response, yet it vibrated with caginess.
He kept his back to her but could feel the heat of her eyes stroking the muscles he'd worked hard to maintain. “How about some cereal?” Froot Loops was a midnight snack. No way would he feed her that junk. Nutritious meals only. Eggs and bacon, fucking protein and shit.