“Not the bed. Help me get to the loveseat. It’s on the other side of—”
“I know where it is. All the suites are identical—it’s my design.”
She sagged against him, willing herself not to stumble as they walked around the bed to the small sofa. He sat down with her, and she closed her eyes until the room stopped spinning. “Okay. At least I don’t feel like I’m at an amusement park anymore.”
“Have you had anything to drink this morning?”
“A little water. But Laurie said she put some ginger ale in the fridge. I don’t suppose—”
“I’ll get it.” Bran was up in a flash, snagging his cane as he went.
Tempted to lie down, Steph resisted, lest she fall asleep and give Bran an excuse to leave. Now was her best chance to explain, before she lost her nerve. Drowsiness threatened to overcome her, and she pinched her arm to wake up. But fatigue won the battle, and she nodded off where she sat. She woke to the shake of gentle hands.
“Here’s your ginger ale.”
She took a few sips and handed the glass back. “Bran, I need to tell you something.”
He shook his head, still refusing to face her. Why was he being so paranoid about his eyes today?
She took a deep breath and blurted it out before she lost her nerve. “Bran, I love you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Hey!” She shot him an ineffectual look of outrage. “Don’t tell me what I feel. It took me a long time to get up the nerve to tell you.”
“That’s not love, you feel—it’s guilt. I was nice to you, and now you feel sorry for me.”
“For once, will you shut up and listen?”
“Fine.” He perched on edge of the loveseat with his back toward her. It would’ve been off-putting, if she hadn’t been tempted to trace the lines of his muscles with her finger. “I’m listening,” he said.
She breathed a long, loud sigh, designed to let him know he was trying her patience. “Bran, I’ve been in love with you for most of the two years we’ve been together. You are, bar none, the most handsome man I’ve ever seen, and I’m well aware you’re way out of my league.”
“You have that backwards—”
“Be quiet! I’m not listening to you unless you turn around and say it to my face.”
“I can’t.” The words seemed to be extruded through his gritted teeth.
“You mean, you won’t.”
His shoulders drooped. “I guess it doesn’t matter. We can’t really be married, anyway. I couldn’t hide it from you forever.”
He rotated slowly until his face was visible. Something was strange about his eyes. Not as full as before. They looked white, instead of blue.
“You see, now.” His face twisted in agony. “This is the real me. Even scarier than the prosthetic eyes.”
The lightbulb finally switched on in her hazy brain. “Is that what this is all about? You thought I’d be freaked out by your ocular implants?”
“You aren’t?” The fragile uncertainty in his voice brought tears to her eyes.
“Of course not.” She swiped her face on her sleeve. “I know what they look like. Googled it two years ago, the day I met you.”
“They don’t bother you at all?” His lips stretched in a rapturous smile, flashing his even white teeth.
“Nope.”
“And you love me?” His voice became gravelly, and he leaned closer.