My mind’s hung up in a dark place too, so I feel like I’m right there with her. It seems almost like kismet—that I wrote out those instructions for visiting the cemetery, and she falls into my life a week before she treks to her hometown for that very reason.
I rub my thumbs over her small, cool hands and try to overcome the embarrassment I feel, being so close to her after last night. I don’t even remember the ride home from the warehouse. I remember looking down as she rubbed something on my knuckles. How pain clenched in my chest, like a weed overtaking flowers, choking everything out of me but the agony of my losses.
I know I used Cleo for comfort. I remember how incredible it felt to get lost deep inside her. How smooth her palms were as they swept slowly up my chest. I remember her fingers in my hair, her legs around my waist as we curled together on the couch. And waking up... that way.
Like I’m so far from the living, nothing warm can touch me. Like there’s a glacier shoved inside my ribs, and I’m not even breathing. No heart beating. Hollow and filled up with cold.
I know I lost my shit and let her see me looking wrecked and crazy.
... And I know she put her arm around me. Tried to rub my neck.
I remember all of that.
Afterward, upstairs... I went into the locked room because I had to. I didn’t know what to do, and I didn’t want to make any calls. I don’t want to pull the trigger on my time with Cleo. I can’t yet.
So I repaired things as much as I could, and by the time I was done, she was asleep—so I slid under the sheets beside her. Her body was so warm, and mine so cold. Even in her sleep, she reached for me. She cradled me. And for the first time in—the first time ever—I started to wonder what I need the most. And how, when I can’t feed this growing hunger for her, I’ll be able to do anything but die.
I look up at her now, at her sad face, and I feel the vestiges of my own pain fall away as I think of ways to ease hers.
“How’d you sleep?” I ask—because I want to know if she remembers being joined in bed by me.
“I slept okay.” She rubs a finger over my scabbed knuckles and frowns down at them. “Did you hit something else?” She pulls her gaze up to my face and strokes her fingertip over my skin. “This little cut is still bleeding.”
I shrug and draw my hands away. “I’ve got that punching bag...”
She reaches out for me. “You punched a punching bag? You shouldn’t do that,” she says. I lean back toward her and let her have my hands.
It feels so good to have her stroke my hand and wrists. I could shut my eyes and give in to her soothing touch. But today, the focus is on her.
“You want some breakfast?” I ask, gently withdrawing my hands from hers.
“I want you to let me put another bandage on your knuckles, especially that one that looks so puffy. I’m leaving to go home after that, so I’ll probably just grab a Pop Tart on the road.”
“Come here,” I beckon with my hand.
She hesitates a moment, then comes around the counter, and I place a hand on her shoulder. I don’t plan to, but I draw her closer, close enough so I could wrap my arms around her. And I want to. I want to so damn much. But I’m still feeling cold and dead inside, so I just stand there, breathing.
“Thank you for last night,” I whisper. “You were very kind to me—with not much regard for you and very few questions answered.” I release her shoulder and look at her pretty face. “Do you want to know what happened at the factory?”
She shrugs. “Only if you want to tell me. It’s okay if you don’t.”
I owe her. I lean back against the counter and tap my fingers against the granite, trying to think of where to start. How much to say. And if it even matters. I’m surprised to find I want to tell her. When I meet her eyes again, they’re warm; encouraging.
“Pace is a first cousin of my father, Robert. My father is... a powerful man—in many ways. Most people feel beholden to him. T
hey do everything he asks. My father and I have been estranged for several years. Since Lyon’s death,” I manage in a steady voice. “But Robert can’t accept that. Everything has to be... according to his wishes. So right now, he’s trying to put pressure on me. He had Pace drive here—even though Pace is an employee of mine, he doesn’t work for my father—He had Pace drive to Georgia with an empty van. To prove a point.”
Her eyes widen. “He drove here from—where again?”
“From California,” I tell her.
“He drove that far with nothing?”
I nod.
“Did Manning know about it?”
I’m surprised she was watching closely enough to see Manning was batting for Pace’s team back at the warehouse.