“So…” Jesus, what was he supposed to say? His mind tornadoed around in his skull, looking for words. He walked up the steps and turned to see her. The back-porch light cast a warm glow across her skin, giving her a heartier color than she naturally possessed. The mass of her hair, so perfect before the ride, now sagged precariously close to her ear. Wispy tendrils had escaped, shooting out at awkward angles around her head. She didn’t look one millimeter less beautiful. “I built the place myself. It’s not fancy, but it’s mine.”
She didn’t say anything, but her gaze darted around, taking in the wide porch spanning the entire length of his house and the small yard that ended abruptly in a thick screen of trees and underbrush.
He led her into his home. With no hesitation, she followed him across the threshold. She had to be way the fuck out of it to have no anxiety about this situation. Not only was he a stranger to her, but he was a big man. Size alone intimated most people. Add on his face tattoo, and most everyone avoided him. He guided her through the wide-open kitchen to the living room.
“I don’t normally have company.” He sniffed the air, making certain Little Man hadn’t found a dead animal in the woods and dragged it through the dog door. Again. “You sit and rest. I’ll get a bandage for your elbow, and then we’ll figure things out.”
She let go of him and sat on his sofa. Stared at her lap.
He immediately missed her touch. Her mouth moved, but the angle was wrong for him to see her lips. He picked up the erratic sounds of speech.
She looked up. Desperation lit her eyes. “…I sleep.”
What could she have possibly said that ended in I sleep? Her emotional scents were all over the universe—no help at all. Without the context of the entire sentence, he couldn’t even be sure he’d read I sleep correctly. He knelt at eye level with her and covered her hands with his.
“Honey.”
She stared into his eyes—his eyes, not the image on his cheek. Heat flared up his neck and onto his face. She looked at him—saw him, the real him. How did she do it?
“I’ve got a favor to ask. When you talk to me, look me in the face.” He should explain, but he wasn’t going to. “Please.”
“I’ll be better after I sleep. I always am.”
The sounds and sight of her speech matched perfectly, but he still wasn’t certain what she meant. “You want to take a nap?”
“I have to.”
The seriousness of her gaze worried him. “You have to?”
“I’ll be better after… I promise.”
Huh? Maybe she knocked her head when she fell. No, she had landed on ass and elbows. “Ohh-kaay…” He drew the word out, showing his confusion.
She shifted her legs up onto the couch, laid her head on the arm, and heaved a deep breath. Her eyelids fluttered shut. He waited for them to open again, but they didn’t. The tangled scent of her emotions faded, and her honeyed scent signature intensified, enveloping him in a vaporous caress. Only one thing magnified a person’s scent signature. Sleep. She’d been trying to tell him she felt the adrenaline crash coming on. Damn. It had hit her hard.
He should go into the kitchen, make himself a peanut butter sandwich, a steaming pot of coffee, a large helping of rational behavior. Instead, he ass-planted on the opposite end of the couch, submitting to the urge to watch over her, to make sure nothing bad happened to her.
She frowned in her sleep. Shifted. Straightened out her legs until her feet ran into his thigh. She heaved a slow breath, her expression settling, as if touching him soothed her. It sure as hell felt good to him.
He memorized the length and width of the lines across her Achilles tendon and the rise and hollow of her anklebones. Shiny new skin, raw patches, and dry scabs covered her toes, the back of her heel. Her feet were a map of misery.
Stop staring at her feet like Little Man drooling over a bone. Touch her—skin to skin.
Fear plunged into his heart sharp as a scalpel. No. He couldn’t allow his bare skin to contact with another human’s flesh. He refused to regress to his childhood—lost in a blur of other people’s memories, not being able to find his reality. Touch amplified his ability. Touch incapacitated him. When he’d started wearing the gloves, he’d gained a critical piece of control.
And yet, he yanked off his gloves. His heart rate, his breath rate jacked up to an almost unbearable level.
What the fuck was he doing?
Not listening to logic. He pressed one finger to her ankle. A wave of calm crested over him, quieting his racing heart, dowsing his ragged breathing, and abating the fear of losing control. No SMs. Millimeter by millimeter he settled his entire hand over her, circling her ankle, thumb meeting middle finger. Her skin was cold over the sharp bones.
No SMs. None. How was that possible?
He didn’t believe in God, but maybe, just maybe, she was created for him. An Eve to his Adam.
What was he thinking? Crazy, crazy, crazy thoughts.
She probably had a brain defect that prevented scents from linking to memories. His olfactory region was overdeveloped. Maybe hers was underdeveloped.
He pulled his hand off her ankle.
Distance. He needed distance between them. He grabbed his gloves and headed for the back door. He glanced at her only once, to make certain she still slept, then left the house.
*