None of it made any sense.
I was staring at the wall and trying to figure out what the hell was going on when the door to my bedroom clicked quietly shut, and the light flicked on. What was she doing? I watched quietly for the light to turn back off, but it didn’t. Why wasn’t she sleeping?
Before I could talk myself out of it, I was knocking quietly on the door and opening it slowly. If she didn’t want me to come into the room, she had plenty of time to stop me…
Holy God.
She was sitting cross-legged in the middle of my small, childhood bed wearing a thin nightshirt that pooled around her thighs. Her arms were raised, and my eyes were drawn to her breasts, clearly free of a bra and moving gently as she messed with her hair.
God was punishing me. That was the only explanation.
When my eyes finally reached her face, I inhaled sharply. She’d pulled her hair into an elaborate braid that wrapped around her head, and for the first time I could see every angle and plane of her face and neck clearly. Gorgeous. Everything about her, from the way she was sitting, to the halo of dark hair, to her wide eyes staring at me in surprise.
That was it for me. That was all it took.
“I couldn’t sleep,” she murmured sheepishly. “I was trying out a new style I found in a magazine. Does it look okay?”
As she turned her head so I could see the back of her hair, she tucked a few wispy strands into the braid, and I lost all control of my mouth.
“Is it hard for ye to do all dat wit’ yer fingers de way dey are?”
I had the overwhelming urge to cut out my own tongue as she turned quickly to face me.
“I—uh, no.” She laughed uncomfortably and slid her hand under her thigh to hide it. “I don’t remember ever having them, so…”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said dat.”
“It was an understandable question,” she said reasonably. “I’m sure people are curious… they just don’t usually ask about it.”
She raised her other hand to start unwinding the braid, and I swallowed hard as her hair flowed back down around her shoulders. I took a step forward, watching it closely as she ran her palm down the length. Then I realized she was still self- consciously hiding her damaged hand under her thigh.
“Don’t do dat,” I ordered hoarsely. “Don’t hide it.”
“I just thought—”
“Whatever yer t'inkin’ is wrong.”
She was uncomfortable and trying not to show it and I was more ashamed than I’d ever been in my life. I’d done that. I made her feel that way—which had never been my intention. I shouldn’t have been in there with her, not while I was trying to get my head on straight, but suddenly I couldn’t leave her without somehow fixing the mess I’d made.
I reached down and pulled her hand from beneath her leg, keeping my eyes on hers as I lifted it up between us. She maintained eye contact and kept her hand relaxed in mine, but her pulse was racing at the side of her neck. Rubbing my thumb along her palm, I finally dropped my eyes to her hand.
Two of her fingers, her left pinkie and ring finger were both missing. They weren’t completely gone, but ended at the middle joint, giving the impression that she’d only curled them out of sight. The skin was smooth, there was very little scarring and if she made a fist, it probably wasn’t even noticeable that those two fingers were gone.
As I stared, she finally tried to pull her hand away with a huff of frustration. She didn’t want me looking—her embarrassment was clear—but I wasn’t about to let go.
And once again, I lost all sense of myself and did something stupid.
“What?” she gasped as I put her ring finger into my mouth and ran my tongue lightly up the side, ending the movement with a soft kiss. I repeated the motion with her tiny pinkie, then moved her hand up my face so I could kiss the palm of her hand.
“I was an idiot and I’m apologizin’ for de hundredth time since we’ve met,” I said, keeping her hand close to my face so she felt every breath on her palm. “It was insensitive to ask about yer fingers in such a way. In all honesty, I have no idea why I asked ye dat. It’s none of me business, and yer hair looked beautiful so de question was irrelevant.”
“I think you may be the oddest person I’ve ever met.”
“I’m not usually like dis, believe me.”
“You’re still holding my hand.”
“Do ye accept me apology?”
“There’s nothing to accept. You were curious.”
“I made ye uncomfortable.”
“Only because I thought it grossed you out.”
“Grossed me out?”
“Disgusted you.”
“Dere’s nuttin’ about ye dat’s disgustin’.”
“Why are you still holding my hand?”
“I’ve no idea.” I still didn’t let go.
She went silent for a moment at my words, looking down at where I held her hand in mine. I didn’t know why I hadn’t dropped it yet. I told myself that it was because I still felt the need to prove that her missing fingers didn’t bother me—but that wasn’t true. It was a part of the reason, but not the entire reason. If I were only trying to reassure her, I wouldn’t have slid my fingers between hers until they were completely entwined.
“Want to hang out in here for a while?” she asked suddenly, her voice hoarse.