“For that to have happened on three different appointments, the chances of that,” I say quietly, my fingertips curling toward the base of his neck, toying with the soft dark licks of hair that hit his collar. “You must get them a lot.”
His hands’ grip flexes on my hips. “I manage fine, Kate.”
It’s a nonanswer that’s answer enough. He’s not even trying to dismiss their frequency, meaning it must be really rough. He’s a pain in my ass, but the thought of him hurting so badly makes me feel sick to my stomach.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
He makes an impatient noise in the back of his throat. “Don’t apologize for something you aren’t responsible for. If anyone should be saying sorry right now, it’s me.”
“Why should you say sorry?”
His palms slip across my lower back, so gentle, as his thumbs graze my waist. “I gave you hell earlier,” he says quietly, “when you showed up today. I didn’t even consider you’d gotten your schedule mixed up instead of messing with me. I forgot—”
“That I have ADHD?” I snort. “Once I stick around more than a few days, it’s impossible to miss, isn’t it?”
His hands glide higher up my back and draw me closer. “Why have you stuck around, Kate?”
I bite my lip, my fingers curling into his hair at the nape of his neck, softly scraping up into the silky strands. “It’s complicated,” I mutter.
“Tell me,” he says quietly but fiercely, his hands drifting over my back in a lulling, sensual circle.
“Why should I tell you my secrets?” I ask.
He’s quiet for so long, staring up at me, searching my gaze. Finally, he says, his voice rough and hoarse, “Because you know that while I’ve been an ass to you plenty, Kate, I’m safe. You can trust me.”
Our eyes hold as those words sink in. The fearful part of me wants to deny that I somehow know deep down I can trust him, to stop myself from opening my heart to him even a crack. But the brave part of me wants to kick my heart’s doors wide open and run headlong into the notion of a trustworthy Christopher Petruchio and all that’s possible because of it.
“As a gesture of good faith,” he adds, “to prove my point, here’s what I’m prepared to do. When you first came home, and I told you I’d collect payment at a later date, for my silence about what you were up to the night we ran into each other . . .”
My grip on his shoulders intensifies as I remember how deeply he pissed me off that day, towering over me in the foyer on Thanksgiving and threatening to tell on me. “What about it?”
“Well,” he says quietly, his touch wandering higher, his thumbs sweeping so close to the underside of my breasts. “I’ll surrender that.”
I arch my eyebrows, incapable of hiding my surprise. “Are you serious?”
“Very serious.”
“You’d do that, just because you want to know why I’m here?”
He hesitates. His knees brush my legs as they tighten around me, holding me close. “I want to know, yes. But . . . mostly I want you to trust me, because your trust matters to me.”
My heart’s pounding. I bite my lip so I won’t smile in pleasure at the warmth his words suffuse through me. Tipping my head, I peer down at him and notice his tie’s loose and crooked. Gently, I straighten the knot, then tighten it a little. “I came home because I wanted to fix things,” I tell his necktie, still fiddling with it, simply to avoid his eyes. “Because if Jules got away, she could have a place to heal, and if Jules was away, Bea and Jamie could be together without worrying about how it might affect her. If I left Scotland and came here, all of that was possible.”
His hands go still on me. “You came home . . . for them.”
I smile wryly and meet his gaze. “Yes, Christopher. Hard to believe I could pull my head out of my ass long enough to show up for my family?”
“I wasn’t thinking that.” He bites his lip, his grip firm on my waist. “I just wondered . . . is there another reason you came, one that was just for you?”
It’s so tempting to tell him everything, when he holds me this way, when he looks at me like this—Because I was tired and sore and broke and lonely. Because this life I’ve been living that used to fix all my problems started feeling like the source of them. Because it felt so good to feel needed, and even better, knowing I could help.
But I’ve given him more than I ever thought I would, in what I’ve already confessed. That’s enough vulnerability for one day.
“I have my reasons for me, too,” I hedge. Sliding my hands off his shoulders, down his arms, I take my first step back until he reluctantly lets go, his hands landing heavily on his thighs. “But those . . .”
“You’re not ready to tell me,” he says.
“Girl’s gotta have some secrets.” I lift the camera and force myself to focus on its mechanics, my eyes on Christopher not as someone who’s touched me tenderly and offered an olive branch of trust, but as my subject, contained safely in its frame.
He stares straight at me, jaw clenched, his eyes two glowing embers that burn through the barrier I’ve tried to put between us. “I can wait,” he says. “Until you are. Ready, that is.”
I lower the camera for a moment and search his eyes. “And what if I told you that you might be waiting a long time, Petruchio?”
His eyes hold mine. “I’d tell you, I’m a patient man, Katerina.”
I clutch my camera like a shield and bring it between us, capturing frame after frame, reminding myself why I came here today in my feminist red power suit, armed with my best camera, my fiercest boots, ready to take charge—not get myself emotionally twisted up and melt into a puddle of lusty goo.
But as I snap photo after photo, as I look into those warm amber eyes locked on me, sure and steady, all I can think about are those photos on his desk, the handkerchief in his drawer, his gentle touch, his eyes searching mine, his voice, low and steady, revealing kindness, promising patience.
I can wait.
I have more than enough photos of him, but I keep my camera up, firmly between us, hiding the fact that Christopher’s managed something I stopped hoping he would a long time ago: to put a smile on my face.
? TWENTY ?
Christopher
“Turn that frown upside down.” Nick smiles from where he leans a shoulder against the threshold of my office.
I stop swaying in my chair, pinning him with a flat, weary look. “And why should I do that?”
“Because you are clearly making some progress with the ballbuster—”
“Don’t call her that.”
Nick lifts his hands. “Okay. My bad.”
I scrub my face. “Sorry I snapped. I’m tired.”
“So go home. Get some sleep.”
I laugh emptily. Spoken like someone who can simply lay down their head and sleep, whose head pounding with pain doesn’t wrench them awake half the time, whose nightmares don’t keep them up the other half. “Yeah.”
Slowly, I ease out of my chair and reach for my coat. “Walking to the train? I’ll join you.”
“Oh. Uh . . .” He wiggles a finger in his ear, Nick’s nervous tell.
“Uh, what?” I ask, slipping on my coat.
“I actually have a dinner date with Bianca. I just wanted to stop by and say . . . thank you. Whatever you’re doing with Kate, I think it’s working. She took my picture today and didn’t judo chop me, just told me if I broke her cousin’s heart, she didn’t know where I lived, but she had her ways of finding out. I’ve been holding my breath since Bianca and I scheduled this, especially since Kate saw me earlier, nervous Bianca would cancel on me, yet here we are.”
I glance away, focused on packing up my cross-body bag, securing the clip, willing myself to ignore the dull ache spreading through my chest. “That’s great. I hope it goes well.”
Nick’s quiet. So quiet, for so long, that I glance up. I catch him examining me carefully. “Thanks,” he finally says, then after a beat: “You doing okay?”
Before I can answer him, my phone, faceup in the middle of my desk, dings with a text message from a number I don’t recognize. I read it, and my heart jumps against my ribs.
Hi. This is Kate.