19. Abby
19
ABBY
I ’ve barely slept in a week, and the desperation is starting to show on my face—in the dark circles under my eyes and dullness of my skin. Whenever exhaustion pulls me under, erotic nightmares of the masked man’s attack torment me. He always peers at me with burning green eyes. Dane’s eyes.
The man I want but can never have. I was a fool to ever think I might be capable of mastering my dark perversions so that I could be with my white knight.
Because Dane is nothing like the selfish, cruel stranger who took my body without my consent. He’s patient and tender.
And my broken brain doesn’t respond to that gentle treatment, no matter how hard I swoon for his protectiveness.
I’ve been making too many mistakes at work, and today, Stacy had to take me into the kitchen to have a private word about how many ruined drinks I’ve wasted.
Even worse, I haven’t been able to paint. Every time I sit at my easel, my fist locks around my paintbrush, and nothing but uninspired daubs of paint appear on my canvas, refusing to coalesce into a coherent scene.
My only outlets for my pain are closed to me, and it’s eating me up inside.
GentAnon won’t answer my messages begging to reconnect.
And Dane hasn’t shown his face in the café.
It should be a small mercy after how terribly things ended between us, but I find myself searching for him every morning at eight oh-five AM. I long to hear his melodic accent caressing my name, to see his cocky half-smile as he locks me in his gaze like I’m the center of his universe.
My exhaustion is so acute that little black dots float at the edge of my vision, and I completely zone out at the espresso bar.
Pain sears my fingers, and I drop the milk jug with a sharp cry. I steamed it for too long, and the hot, thick liquid bubbled over to burn my hand. The metal jug clangs on the tiled floor, and milk spills everywhere. Little white droplets spray the fridge, and it rapidly spreads to pool under the counter.
Despite the pain in my hand, I dart into the back to grab a mop without pausing to treat the burn. I whirl to return to the mess I made, but Stacy is blocking my way back into the café.
Her hands are on her hips, and her berry-painted lips are pressed into a thin line. “What is going on with you?”
My eyes burn hotter than the prickling sensation on my fingers. “I’m so sorry. It was an accident.”
She shakes her head, and her voluminous, glossy black curls sway around her heart shaped face. “I know you didn’t do it on purpose. And I’m not here to chew you out. I’m worried about you.”
“I’m fine,” I say quickly.
She blows out a sigh and takes the mop from me. “Run some cold water over your hand. I’ll clean up the spill.”
“I can do it,” I protest. It’s my mess, my responsibility.
Embarrassment heats my face. I’m the biggest mess here.
Stacy’s eyes soften with concern. She’s not just my manager; over the last two years, we’ve become friends.
“No, you need to go home.” Her tone is firm but calm, not cruel. “For a few days, I thought maybe you’d been out drinking late, so I was pissed. But I texted Franklin, and he said y’all haven’t been out in a couple weeks. I’m not sure what you’re going through, but I can tell you need a break.”
My shoulders curve inward, and I’m too wrung out to maintain my straight posture. I feel like a clipped flower, slowly wilting after being cut off at the root.
“I haven’t been out partying,” I say. “I promise.”
“I know, and that’s why I’m telling you to go home and get some rest,” she reassures me. “Whatever you’re going through, we’re here for you. And not just for karaoke and dancing. You can talk to me.”
My heart twists painfully, and tears well in my eyes. I consider her a friend, but I realize in this moment that I’ve been keeping her at an emotional distance. We go out with the girls and Franklin, and we always have a good time.
But I haven’t allowed any of them to truly know me. They don’t know anything about my past, my family, my dreams.
Dane is the only person in years to glimpse the real me behind the sunny smiles and pretty paintings.
Stacy pulls me in for a quick hug. “Okay, we don’t have to talk about it now,” she allows. “Take care of yourself, Abby. When you’re feeling better, we’ll go out for tacos and salsa dancing. Everything will be okay. We’re all here for you.”
I dash the tear from my cheek as she releases me from her embrace. “Thank you. I really am sorry about the mess.”
“Don’t worry about it,” she reassures me. “I’ve got it.”
With that, she carries the mop out into the café to clean up the milk I spilled.
I move as though in a daze, following her instructions to put my hand in cold water for a minute. My skin is flushed an angry shade of red, but it won’t blister. When the prickling sensation eases, I turn off the faucet and trudge to my locker to retrieve my purse.
My eyes are downcast when I slink back into the café, my cheeks still flushed with embarrassment. I’m mortified that I’m being sent home because I’m too tired to function, but I’m touched by Stacy’s concern.
I try to curve my lips in a pleasant expression as I make my way around the counter and through the seating area. I’m almost at the door when I hear his voice: that deep, lilting rumble that makes my heart flutter.
“What happened to your hand?”
“It’s nothing.” I tuck my hand behind my back and fight the urge to cringe.
I’m barely keeping it together as it is. Seeing the disgust in Dane’s eyes when he looks at me might break me in my current fragile state.
“You’re hurt.” He’s using his low, bedside manner tone. It’s gentle but authoritative. “Let me see.”
Suddenly, his muscular frame is in front of me, blocking my path to the exit. His sharply tailored black shirt fills my vision; I can’t bring myself to look directly at him.
“I’m fine,” I say with a breezy wave of my uninjured hand. “I’m just going home.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.” His broad palm appears between us, facing up in clear expectation. “Show me your hand, Abigail.”
I blow out a sigh, and my shoulders slump again. I’m too exhausted to fight him. If I just appease him quickly, I can make my escape.
Even if the prospect of enduring his touch makes my heart beat against my ribs like it’s a frantic bird trying to fight its way out of a cage. I try to ignore the bruising tenderness at the center of my chest and place my hand in his waiting palm.
His clinician’s fingers are featherlight on my stinging, bright red skin. They’re blissfully smooth and cool on my enflamed flesh.
“How did this happen?”
I shrug. “I wasn’t paying attention, and I burned the milk I was steaming. It was a silly mistake.”
He releases a low hum and turns my hand, inspecting every inch of it.
“I’m taking you home,” he announces. “I can treat this properly there.”
My jaw drops, and my eyes finally snap to his. Those sensual lips twist in the arrogantly amused smirk that haunts my forbidden dreams.
“I didn’t think I’d see you again,” I say before I can fully consider my words. “You were so angry with me. Why are you helping me?”
His heavy brows draw together, and his smirk melts away. “I came here to see you, Abigail. But I want to talk in private.” He boldly cups my cheek as though he has every right, gently lifting my face to study the signs of exhaustion. “I should’ve come sooner. But you’re right. I was angry.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, regret tightening my throat around the apology. “I didn’t want to upset you. That’s the last thing I wanted.”
His jaw firms, but he nods. “I think I understand. Let’s go somewhere we can talk. Come on.”
He wraps his arm around my hunched shoulders and steers me out of the café. His other hand holds his phone, and he opens an app to call a car for us. We stand under the bright Carolina sun for a few quiet minutes, and I close my eyes. My lids are so heavy, and now that Dane is touching me again, I finally feel safe enough to rest.
A black BMW arrives, and he helps me into the backseat before getting in on the other side. His arm is around my shoulders again, and he applies gentle pressure to encourage me to lean on him.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs. “I’ll take care of you, Abigail.”
My eyes sting, so I close them again to hold in the flood of relief that wets my lashes with tears. I inhale his unique, heady scent and allow my body to fully relax for the first time since he stormed out of my apartment.
I’m not sure how many minutes pass, and I think I might’ve drifted off for a while because we’re suddenly coming to a stop.
Shock renders me mute when Dane drops a quick kiss on my forehead. “Stay.”
The world turns surreal, and everything is fuzzy at the edges. He’s opening my car door for me. I take his waiting hand with my uninjured one, and he helps me to my feet. He’s every inch the charming, chivalrous gentleman, and I can’t help swooning for him all over again.
His presence is a miracle, a blessed mercy after days of self-loathing and regret.
His palm spans my lower back as he confidently directs me to the sidewalk. Our physical connection hits me like a lightning strike, a visceral reminder of the way his thumb stroked my spine on our first date. My heart throbs in a painful, heavy rhythm. I want to be with this man more than anything. I thought I’d ruined everything, but he might offer me absolution.
He leads me to the hunter green door on a white house with matching green shutters. I blink and glance around to get my bearings. We’re in Harleston Village, a nice neighborhood across town from my apartment.
“I thought you said you were taking me home.”
His dazzling smile hits me square in the chest. “I am. This is my home.”
He unlocks the door, and it swings open to reveal a large entry hall. My breath catches when I see the painting that dominates the white wall directly in front of us.
“Dane…” His name is little more than a tremor on my lips.
He closes the door behind us and ushers me forward, guiding me down the hall until the painting fills my vision.
It’s the red abstract expressionist piece from the gallery at The Magnolia. The one we both admired on our first date.
His hard body looms behind me, and his hands frame my shoulders. “I couldn’t stop thinking about it,” he murmurs. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you. ”
One hand lifts to my hair, and he twines my purple curl around his finger. “I’m not good with emotions,” he admits. “I think that must be why I’ve never really understood art. But you see the world in a way I’ve never contemplated before. You are remarkable, Abigail.”
“I thought you hated me for what I did.” My voice breaks, and the painting blurs behind a wash of fresh tears.
“You said this painting is passion,” he says. “But I can barely see the difference between the shades of red without you to describe them so eloquently. You said that’s rage.” He gestures at a crimson spray. “And that’s seduction.” His finger hovers over the purplish smudge. “But to me, they aren’t so different.”
“What are you saying?” I ask, my heart in my throat. I crave his forgiveness, but something like fear dances down my spine in a primal warning. It floods my core with forbidden heat.
“You lied to me when you faked your orgasm,” he says. “But I wasn’t being myself, either. I think it’s time for us to both be honest about what we want.”
“And what is it that you want?”
“You. All of you.”