I turn back toward the door.
"Sugar," he calls, and I freeze. It's the first time he's spoken my name, and I'm shocked at how much I like the sound of it.
I swallow, then grapple for the handle again, because clearly I need to get away from this man who's messing with my head.
"Please," he says more gently. "Wait."
I hesitate. I know I shouldn't, but I do. I stand there with my hand tight around the cool steel of the handle, tears clinging to my lashes. I'm not even sure why I'm crying. For my house? For my stupidity? For this man's pain? A man who projects such kindness and innocent charm to the world, but here in this room is so obviously, painfully tortured?
He says nothing else, and I think he's afraid that if he speaks, I'm going to bolt. As if I'm a small, cornered rabbit, and if he moves too quickly I'll somehow manage to hop away.
"Tell me what you're talking about." His voice is firm. Demanding. But I can't answer.
Besides, he already knows. He's the one trying to work something out, after all.
Finally, I face him again. "Don't take this out on Marjorie, okay? I get that you need ... something. But this is my first time doing anything like this, and I messed it all up. She thought I'd be okay, but she was wrong. Please don't blame her. I feel terrible enough already. If I thought she lost a client, then I'd really--"
"I won't," he says. "I don't."
"And I'm sure she'll give you a refund." A fat tear rolls down my cheek, and I wince at the thought of what I'm sacrificing by walking away. "Fuck," I whisper as I wipe the tear with the back of my hand.
I manage to stop myself before I say that I'm sorry one more time. Instead, I turn toward the door again, this time pulling it open a few inches before a single word stops me.
"Why?"
I pause, my eyes down so that I'm focusing on the pattern of the carpet in the hallway just outside this door.
I hear the rustle of clothes and feel the shift in the air. He's stepped closer to me, and this time when he speaks I feel him gently lay a hand on my shoulder. "You said it was your first time. Why were you doing it?"
I twist out from under his touch. "Does it matter?"
"It matters to me." He reaches over me to push the door shut. As he does, his entire body brushes mine. I stiffen, hyperaware of his touch, of the ripples of electricity that zing through my body. And I breathe only when he eases back, once again giving me space.
I close my eyes tight, hating that I reacted so viscerally to this man. But something about him--his pain, his loneliness--has settled inside me. And even though I want to ignore the question and run out that door, I already know that ev
en if I leave, I won't really be escaping him at all.
And so I stay. I draw in a deep breath. And then I turn to face him. "The money." I say the words simply. Flatly. As if there's no emotion attached to them at all. As if I don't understand how much I'm giving up by walking out this door.
"That much I assumed. What do you need the money for?"
I tilt my head as I look at him. "Is this your first time?"
The corner of his mouth twitches. "No."
I nod, as if considering that. "Why were you doing it?"
The twitch turns into a full-blown smile. "Does it matter?"
I meet his gaze. "It matters to me."
Our eyes lock, the words hanging in the air between us. There's heat and humor and something else I don't recognize but makes me feel safe. Comfortable. I like this guy. Despite the weird circumstances, there's something about him that I really like.
The moment seems to last for an eternity, though I know it's really only the space of one breath. Then he takes a step back. "Touche," he says, breaking the spell.
I shift my weight from one foot to the other. "So, anyway. I should go."
He takes my hand, and suddenly the only thing in the whole world that I'm aware of is that connection between us. His firm grip. His warm skin.