Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Blue
Red walks besides me, steering me through the city, and I can hardly contain my excitement.
He keeps telling me I need to eat and sleep, but I can't think about either.
Sometimes, he puts his hand on the small of my back, and euphoria will hit me so hard, I shudder.
He'll pull me closer to steady me, and his clean soap, softened by warm cedar and something quietly masculine scent, hums through me, making me feel giddier.
Every time I glance at him, the streetlights catch on the sharp line of his jaw and the tension coiling in his shoulders. The glow electrifies his eyes, tracking my pace like he's afraid I'll collapse.
Best of all, I feel his devotion. It's like he's finally letting his real intentions slip through the cracks he keeps trying to seal.
He wants to take care of me.
It has to mean he cares about me.
Red keeps asking the same question every few minutes.
"Blue, are you okay?"
The answer should be obvious. I'm better than okay. I'm ecstatic. But I nod, not giving anything away because I don't want him to stop asking. I don't want him to stop caring tonight, or ever.
But then he presses me harder, and I can't contain it.
"Yes," I say again, matching his stride for two seconds before my speed tips forward and I drift half a step ahead. I wobble too close to the curb, practically sing, "I'm perfect."
His hand comes to my elbow to steady me. The touch burns through my sleeve, a hot, electric brand that zips straight to my chest.
In my head, I picture him pushing me against a wall the second we get inside my apartment. He grabs my jaw, telling me to stop pretending I don't know what this is. Then I picture his mouth crashing into mine, and all his restraint snapping like a frayed wire.
"Blue," he blurts out, tugging me into him.
A bicyclist zips by.
"Watch out," he shouts at the rider.
More adrenaline fills me. "Thanks for saving me, Dr. Mercer." I bat my eyes at him.
He stays quiet, continuing to watch me, scanning my face when we reach another lamppost.
The silence between us hums, full of things he doesn't say out loud.
I slow my pace, chirping, "You keep staring."
"I'm making sure you're steady," he claims, voice low and clipped.
"Why wouldn't I be steady?" I tease, even though I know exactly why. My legs feel like liquid one moment, air the next. My heart pounds faster than the steps we're taking. I'm wired and weightless, and my skin feels too tight.
It's glorious!
I spin in a circle several times until I'm dizzy and almost fall.
"Blue!" he cries out, tugging me into him.
I laugh into his chest, trembling in his arms.
"You're shaking. I don't think you should be spinning right now." He shifts closer, and his protectiveness makes my throat tighten.
"We're almost there," he mumbles, then slides his arm behind my waist and steers me around the corner and onto my street.
A new wave of anticipation explodes all over again.
He knows where I live now!
My brain races faster than my feet.
What will happen when we get inside?
Will he sit with me?
Talk with me?
Ask me to show him the dress?
Will he finally crack and admit everything he's been holding back?
Will he tell me to model the lingerie I made for him?
A dizzy wave hits me. My knees wobble.
Red's palm wraps around my upper arm, firm and grounding. He pins his eyebrows together and orders, "Let's stand still for a minute."
"I'm fine," I breathe, my pulse throbbing in my neck and my hands shaking. "I'm just excited."
"Excited about what?" he asks, voice too careful.
I stare up at him. I shouldn't say it. But I want to. I want to watch his face when I do.
"You," I whisper.
His jaw flexes. "Blue—"
"Admit you care about me," I murmur, leaning closer and inhaling his scent. I close my eyes briefly, rattling off, "You walked me home. You didn't have to. You could've just sent an Uber or something. But you didn't. You came with me."
"I came with you because you're not well," he says gently. "You need support right now."
"From you," I correct softly.
He looks away for one second, the war inside him all over his expression. But he can have his guilt and fear. It won't stop the pull between us.
My chest blooms with heat. I demand, "You do care about me. Admit it."
"Of course, I care about you. I'm very worried, too," he adds.
"Thank you for telling me that," I say, then grab his hand and lunge toward my building.
"Whoa! Slow down, Blue," he orders.
I steer him toward the elevator, not noticing any of the security guards or my neighbors. No one matters, only Red.
We get into the elevator, and I press the button. I lean against him, happy, and yawn.
"You need sleep," he reiterates.
"I'm fine," I declare, smiling up at him.
The elevator dings, the doors open, and I rush toward my apartment. I fumble inside my purse, trying to find my keys, but my hands tremble. I shakily pull them out.
Red takes them calmly and says, "Let me do this."
"Okay," I agree, beaming.
He unlocks the door for me and pushes it open. When he steps inside behind me, I swear my heart detonates.
I imagined this a thousand times. Red in my home, closing the door, and looking around my space like he's memorizing it.
This moment feels like everything I've been waiting for is finally beginning.
He scans the room, taking in my couch, my table, my walls, not judging but with the same worried expression.
The tightness in his shoulders doesn't ease.
The thought that he's worried about me, personally, intimately, makes another wave of energy pulse through me.
It's bright, dizzying, and utterly addictive.
I blurt out, "It's clean. I scrubbed it all night."
He steps closer, softly asking, "Blue, how are you feeling right now? Really."
I swallow, trying to force my voice not to shake with excitement. "I'm happy you're here."
"That's not what I asked."
"I know."
He studies me, eyes moving over my face, searching for answers I don't want to give. My hands won't stop trembling. My breath keeps catching. I can't stop swaying between wanting to kiss him and wanting to collapse into him.
He cautiously reaches out and places two fingers under my chin, lifting my face until I have to meet his eyes. He quietly states, "You're shaking."
"You're here," I whisper back.
"This isn't what you think it is."
"It is for me."
His throat works around the sigh he doesn't let out. Something deep flickers in his gaze, too raw not to make me even more resolved in my belief.
He's meant to be mine.
He drops his hand. "You need food."
I blink. "Food?"
"Yes." His tone hardens into something that brooks no argument. "You're not going to bed until you eat something."
The idea of him staying long enough to feed me sends a dizzy, breathless thrill spiraling through my body. "You're not leaving?" I ask, just to hear him say it.
"Not yet."
My entire chest lights up. I step aside, giving him space to follow me toward the kitchen, already imagining the next hour in vivid, intoxicating detail.
He doesn't trust me to take care of myself.
So he's going to do it for me.
I've never felt more alive. But then, panic sets in. I become hyperaware of every surface, little shadow, and minute object he could possibly look at.
The kitchen counters look clean, but are they clean enough?
Did I leave anything out?
Did I scrub the stove twice or three times last night?
Did I imagine bleaching the bathroom at four in the morning, or did I actually do it?
My stomach tightens. If he thinks I live like a disaster, he'll think I'm one, too.
I can't have that.
He pauses just inside the doorway of my tiny kitchen, scanning quietly. His eyes move over the counters, the fridge, the sink.
I follow his gaze, horrified by each thing that might not be perfect.
Did I leave the sponge too wet?
Is the trash too empty?
Does the fridge smell weird?
Oh god, did I forget to take out the recycling?
"I know it's small," I blurt out, as though that's the problem. "I'm organized, I just...work a lot...and—"
"Blue, you don't need to explain your apartment to me," he cuts in gently.
But I do. I absolutely do. Because if he sees one thing out of place, he might think I'm messy, or irresponsible, or incapable of taking care of myself. And if he thinks that, he might not stay.
I grab a dish towel off the counter and start wiping a perfectly clean surface.
Red steps closer and takes the towel from my hand. He softly states, "Your apartment is impeccable. There's nothing to clean right now."
"I just want everything to look nice. For you."
"It does. It looks perfect."
Perfect.
I nod, beaming. "Okay."
"Sit down," he orders, pulling out a barstool. His warm, steady voice is so achingly sincere that it makes my breath catch. He isn't judging or disgusted. He's just here, in my apartment with me.
The realization hits so hard, my knees buckle but my ass lands on the padded seat.
Red squeezes my hand. "Try to relax."
"I am," I claim, but inside, I'm nothing close to relaxed.
He opens the fridge. The empty shelves and lone yogurt stare back at him. His mouth tightens in frustration.
He asks, "When did you last buy groceries?"
I lift a shoulder. "I'm not hungry most of the time."
He closes the fridge and turns to me fully. "You need to eat something. Tonight. Now."
"I told you. I'm not hungry."
"That isn't an option anymore." The firmness in his voice sends a hot spark through my chest. He's staying and taking control. He's not letting me push him away or drift into some sleepless void. Dr. Red Mercer is in my kitchen, deciding what I eat, how long I stay awake, and what happens next.
Tonight's the night he can kiss me.
The thought erupts so fast, I see stars. I grip the edge of the counter to steady myself.