His mouth twisted. “You have no idea what it is you do to me. That’s why I thought it would be best if I stay away.”
She froze, searched his face, then took a step closer to him, wondering if she imagined the undercurrents of desire in his voice. “Bran?”
“I’m not leaving because I don’t want you, Bailey,” he said, his voice so low she barely heard him. “I’m leaving because I want you so badly it’s tearing me apart.”
She felt her eyes widen, her heart begin to thud in a heavy, nervous rhythm. She twisted her hands in front of her, eager, uncertain, bewildered. “You—you do?”
“I have from the first time I saw you. I knew even then that I couldn’t stay with you, didn’t have the right to even talk to you. But after you saw me that day in the gazebo, I—I couldn’t stay away.”
“I didn’t want you to stay away,” she said quietly.
“I didn’t expect—didn’t think you would—”
“Fall for you?” Bailey asked simply. “Well, I have.”
He winced. “I’d forgotten that tendency of yours to speak your mind so frankly.”
“I don’t like dancing around the truth. It doesn’t accomplish anything.”
“Bailey, we can’t do this,” he said, visibly torn. “I can’t be what you want. What you need.”
She took some hope from the longing in his voice. She stepped closer to him, so close she almost touched him. She kept her hands at her sides, leaving that first move to him. “And how do you know what I want or what I need?” she challenged.
His hand rose, as though to touch her face. He held it poised an inch away from her cheek. “I know you don’t need me.”
“You’re wrong.”
His eyelashes flickered, the only indication of his emotions. “There are… things about me that you don’t know.”
“So tell me.”
His hand still suspended in the air, he closed his eyes. His face convulsed in visible pain. “I was hoping I wouldn’t have to.”
Her throat tightened. She could almost feel the waves of unhappiness radiating from him, and she ached in sympathy.
She couldn’t wait any longer for him to close the distance between them. She reached out to touch her fingertips to his face. “Oh, Bran, please talk to me. Tell me what it is that’s hurting you so badly. Let me help.”
His skin was cold beneath her fingers, almost icy. She wondered at that. Was this his reaction to extreme emotion? Was he ill? “Bran?”
His eyes opened, locked with hers. The heat in them belied the coolness of his skin. He started to speak.
She held her breath in anticipation.
“Bailey?” The woman’s voice sounded from just beyond the open door, shattering the moment of intimacy.
Bailey dropped her hand and turned quickly toward the sound, aware that Bran had gone tense beside her. Elva Tippin stood framed in the doorway, a covered plate in her hands, a puzzled expression on her face. “Were you talking to someone?” she asked.
Bailey frowned, thinking the question strange. Obviously she’d been talking to Bran. She didn’t bother to answer, but asked instead, “Do you need something, Elva?”
The woman walked through the doorway. “I brought you a snack. I made a chocolate-fudge cake for Casey and I took a piece up to your aunt. Thought I’d bring you a slice while I was at it.”
“That was very thoughtful of you, Elva. Thank you,” Bailey forced herself to say politely.
She wondered if she should introduce Bran, or if he would prefer to keep his identity private until his sister returned. She glanced at him in question, noting that his face was frozen, his mouth grim. Was he really that upset that someone else had finally seen him?
“How’s your head? And your ankle?” Elva asked, setting the plate on the counter that separated the living room from the kitchenette.
“Better, thank you.”