Chapter 3
3
Whit Bowman
M y heartbeat is a rapid pounding in my ears as I follow Conrad into this room. His childhood bedroom turned guest room. White shiplap walls surround a queen-size bed and an empty desk in the corner. A wrought-iron sign hangs on the wall above the bed that says ‘Be Our Guest,’ and I don’t know who picked out that sign, but it certainly wasn’t Conrad.
Coming out of the bathroom and finding him standing in the living room was jarring, to say the least. It was about the last thing I would’ve expected. Now, as we stand in the middle of this room, I don’t quite know what to do. My stomach is clear in my throat, making it hard to breathe while Conrad’s deep brown gaze stays fixed on my face. Even though I can’t find it in me to meet it.
For as long as I can remember, eye contact has always been difficult for me. It doesn’t feel natural most of the time, even though it’s considered polite . I especially struggle with it in times like this, where I’m uncomfortable and more than a little unsure. To say it took me by surprise when Conrad asked me if I was okay would be an understatement of the year. Clearly, he’s full of those tonight.
Not only does he hardly ever ask things like that, but I also felt like I was doing a pretty good job of hiding the stress I’m carrying. Tonight isn’t about me and my troubles. It’s about my friend and the celebration of his birthday. I’ve been here for a couple of hours now, and nobody else has asked me, aside from Shooter when I first got here, so I figured I was doing a tip-top job.
I guess not if somebody as unperceptive as Conrad could tell.
“Sit,” he grunts, ushering me toward the edge of the bed.
Everything about this moment feels odd. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve been in this house in the last four years for anything other than using the restroom. But I do as he says anyway, perching my behind on the firm mattress, pressing my hands between my legs tightly. The pressure of my thighs squeezing against the backs of my hands grounds me, at least a little bit.
Conrad scans the room, a very clear look of discomfort on his face. Probably wondering where he should sit now that he ordered me onto the bed. After a few beats, he pulls the wheely chair out from the desk, dropping his large frame onto it. He’s entirely too big for that chair, and had I been in a better mood, I’d probably find it comical. I don’t think I’ve ever met somebody quite as large as Conrad. Not even his own father.
“What’s going on?”
There’s a gentleness to his voice that I’m not used to. Something like genuine concern laces every word. I don’t know how to handle it. My throat is tight and scratchy, and I’m vulnerable sitting here before him. The question seems impossible to answer because what’s not going on? Where do I even begin?
Before I even have a chance to open my mouth and try to formulate a response, pressure builds behind my eyes and the tip of my nose stings. I’m hit with a wave of emotion that chokes me, and I have to swallow a few times to get rid of it.
Finally, I just decide to blurt it all out because I don’t know of any other way to say it. I may as well just get it over with.
“My dad’s kidneys are failing, and he’s on dialysis three times a week now. On top of that, he nearly totaled his car trying to drive to his appointment a few months ago because he’s a stubborn old man who refused to admit he needed help. His vision has gotten so bad with age, and since the accident, they’ve taken his license from him. And I’m entirely too busy at the clinic to take him to these appointments multiple times a week, so I had to hire a nurse to come live with him, which is costing me a fortune.”
I can’t be sure if I even took a breath the entire time I word vomited. Conrad’s brows are near his hairline, clearly not expecting any of that, and his stunned silence does nothing but make my skin crawl. I shouldn’t have said any of that.
My problems are not his problems. Not anymore.
And now he’s awkwardly sitting in front of me, clearly not knowing what to say to placate me and my meltdown.
God, this is uncomfortable.
Of all the people I could’ve—and probably should’ve—confided in, Conrad Strauss is the absolute last on that list. In fact, he’s so far down on the list, he’s not even actually on it.
Rising from the bed, I start toward the door, my cheeks flaming. “I’m sorry,” I mutter. “I shouldn’t have?—”
In a flash, Conrad’s hand darts out, wrapping around my forearm, stopping me from taking another step. His grip is firm, but not painful. My head snaps in his direction, our eyes locking, and as if realizing for the first time what he did, he drops my arm like it’s a hot potato.
“Sit,” he grunts again, tipping his head toward the bed. “And you have nothing to apologize for.” He continues as I sit back down, my mind a mess, the spot on my arm where he touched me tingling, and it’s making my heart want to beat right out of my chest. We don’t touch each other. No matter how innocent. Thinking back, I can’t recall a single time when his arm has brushed mine or his hand has even landed on my shoulder or anything in the last four years.
Silence falls over us. I don’t know where to go from here, or what to say. I’ve already said entirely too much as it is. This feels wrong…but in the same breath, I can’t deny how good it feels to get that off my chest. It’s a lead weight I’ve been carrying around on my shoulders. It’s exhausting and it’s taking its toll on me.
Conrad is the first to break the silence. “I had no idea you were dealing with all of that.”
I snort. “How would you? It’s not like we’re old friends who have coffee and catch up.”
“We could be,” he offers, causing my eyes to snap up to meet his again, heart beating faster in my chest.
“What?”
Conrad exhales a sigh, and I watch the column of his throat work as he swallows. “I just mean, if you need somebody to talk to, I’m here, Whit. We don’t have to be strangers.”
This moment is surreal. Like I’m watching it from outside of my body. It’s been nearly four years since Conrad and I got a divorce, and even longer than that since he’s presented himself as somebody I could talk to.
Where is this coming from?
Is he feeling alright?
Are we in an alternate universe?
Did the three beers I consumed go straight to my head?
“I’m so sorry to hear about your dad,” he goes on. “I can’t imagine the stress and worry that must fill you with.”
My throat goes dry, and it feels like my tongue is made of sandpaper. It’s entirely too big and way too scratchy. I clear my throat, then swallow over the lump. None of it helps.
“Thank you,” I croak, unable to meet his gaze. “It’s not ideal, but I’m managing.”
Jesus, if that isn’t the biggest damn lie I’ve ever told. I’m the furthest thing from managing. I’m not sleeping, my appetite is basically diminished, and the weight of the future sits on my chest like an unforgiving brick. I have no brothers or sisters, my mom is dead, so my father’s care is solely in my hands, and if that wasn’t bad enough, I’m also trying my damnedest to make him proud by continuing to run his practice that he left me. That’s a lot of fucking pressure to put on one person.
I don’t know if it’s all of this bubbling to the surface after weeks of burying it all, or if it’s the way Conrad is looking at me like I’m a porcelain doll about to tip over and shatter into a million tiny, irreplaceable pieces, but the pressure builds behind my eyes to an insurmountable amount, and before I know it, all the stress, the worry, the hurt, the frustration…all of it spills over, cascading down my cheeks in a shameful, hot path.
My bottom lip quivers, and I suck in a lungful of air, shifting my body away from Conrad because I can’t stand to look at him right now. Can’t stand him seeing me like this. But before I even have a chance, his hand is back, wrapping around my forearm, and instead of stopping and holding me in place this time, he’s using it to haul my body into his. Strong arms wrap around me as my face crashes into a wide, strong chest, and as if I’m operating on muscle memory alone, my arms circle his middle, holding on like he’s the very thing keeping me upright right now.
And if I’m being honest, he is.
Shoulders trembling, I fall apart right here, in the arms of my ex-husband, and he holds on to me, his large, steady hand rubbing soothing circles along my back, silently allowing me to let it all out. I don’t know how long we stand there like that, nor could I pinpoint exactly when the air shifts between us. All that I know is that it does. The energy crackles, surrounding us palpably. With my ear to his chest, I can feel the rapid beat to Conrad’s heart. It matches my own.
The hand on my back continues to rub, but it sends a sensation through my body that I haven’t experienced in far too long. My skin is on fire, sensitive to the touch. My pulse races as I remain in his embrace a little longer. Eyelids fluttering closed, I allow Conrad to overwhelm my senses.
His rustic, rich scent. The way it wraps around me. The way it burrows under my skin.
His touch. God , how I’ve missed this.
His steady breathing. In… and out. In… and out. Deep, hearty breaths.
The way his tall, wide form envelops me. I’m a butterfly, and he’s the cocoon. My safety. My shelter.
I can’t think. Can barely breathe.
It feels so unbelievably good to fall apart in his arms again. It’s been so long, yet it feels like just yesterday. Pulling back just enough to peer up at him, needing to know if he feels this shift too, my breath gets caught in my throat as I take him in.
Clenched jaw underneath a short, thick beard. Chestnut eyes now pitch black as they dance over my face. Flushed cheeks. The sight of Conrad makes my chest clench and my stomach flip. It sends a rush of adrenaline and something else entirely through my bloodstream.
Tucked against his chest, his warm breath fans my face, our proximity making me dizzy. My gaze flits down. His lips, and the way his tongue pokes out and wets them, make my mouth water. When I look back up, eyes locking on his, something electrically charged passes between us. Something that doesn’t require words but says everything.
My heart races the longer he looks at me. The longer I sit here in his hold. And when he leans down, bringing his mouth a hairsbreadth away from mine, the organ in my chest damn near beats right out.
He doesn’t make contact right away. Resting his forehead against mine, he breathes me in. Giving me a chance to push him away. Except I don’t want to push him away. In fact, it’s quite the opposite, and I make that very well known when I lift up on my tiptoes and eradicate any distance between us.
It feels like I’m floating as our lips crash together. As I feel the scratch of his beard against my face. My heart thumps harder as his hot tongue flicks into my mouth, brushing against mine. As realization hits me. As it warms my entire body.
I’m kissing Conrad.
I’m kissing my ex-husband.
For the first time in over four years, and it’s even better than I remember. It’s like coming home.