Chapter 25 #3
I felt her grin against my skin, her teeth grazing the shell of my ear. "I like everything I see, Alex. Though I must say, the ballerinas on your wall really add a certain... je ne sais quoi to the view."
I let out a breathless laugh, turning in her arms to face her. She just made everything so fucking easy. I was standing there completely bare, pinned between the door and the most formidable woman I knew, and for the first time, I didn’t feel fucking small. I felt seen.
She didn't push it further, knowing the exhaustion was waiting just behind the adrenaline. She just gave my hip a final, affectionate squeeze before handing my underwear back with a wink.
"Dress, darling," she murmured, her eyes dancing with a mix of heat and tenderness. "I would like to ensure you and your father have a hot meal before we settle for the night."
I pulled on my clothes, then wrapped my arms around her neck for a quick, lingering kiss. "How are you so perfect?" I whispered.
Carrie hid her smile, though it glimmers in her eyes as she tucked a stray hair behind my ear.
She was fucking adorable sometimes. "You are clearly overtired, Alex," she replied, her voice a low, melodic hum.
"Because I am in no way perfect. But you? You’re doing a very convincing impression of it right now. "
I chuckled, my heart doing those fucking stupid, frantic flips again.
Every time she said something like that, I felt like I was being reconstructed from the inside out.
I kissed her one last time, a silent promise of everything I wanted to tell her when I wasn't so bloody exhausted, and then we headed downstairs.
The house was quiet, the air thick with the kind of heavy stillness that only comes after a hospital vigil. Dad was already on the sofa, his head tilted back, almost asleep before the shitty tv.
"Sit," Carrie commanded, pointing toward the sofa as we entered the living room. "I’m making dinner."
I stopped in my tracks, my old instincts for self-reliance flaring up. "Carrie, come on. You’ve done enough. I can help, or at least show you where the—"
Oh fuck. Before I could finish the sentence, Carrie’s hand was on the back of my neck.
It wasn't rough, but it was firm, a sudden and electric pressure that made my breath fucking hitch. She guided me backward into the shadows of the hallway, away from my dad’s dozing form, and leaned in until her lips were brushing the shell of my ear.
Motherfucker.
"Darling," she whispered, her tone dropping into that dark, velvety register that made my knees turn to water. "If you keep protesting against my help, I will be forced to remind you what happens to brats who don't know when to be quiet."
I shivered, my back hitting the hallway wall as she crowded into my space. Holy shit.
"I have forgiven your swearing today under the circumstances," she continued, her breath hot against my skin. "But if you keep whining, I’ll be forced to do something about it regardless of the situation. Am I clear?"
I swallowed hard, my pulse fucking racing for an entirely different reason now. The exhaustion was still there, but it was been momentarily eclipsed by the absolute, commanding heat radiating off her. She wasn't just my anchor; she was still the woman who knew exactly how to fucking handle me.
"Crystal," I rasped.
"Good girl." She gave the nape of my neck a final, possessive squeeze before stepping back, her expression shifting back to that of the calm, capable Dr. Carter as if nothing had fucking happened.
"Now, go sit with your father. I believe I saw some pasta in the pantry that's screaming for my attention. "
Jesus fuck. I stumbled back into the lounge, dazed and completely defeated, and sank onto the sofa next to Dad. He didn't even open his eyes, just murmured, "She’s a keeper, that one."
I could only nod, staring toward the kitchen where the woman of my dreams—and my most delicious fucking nightmares—was currently boiling water in a silk lounge suit.
The dinner had been a minor fucking miracle.
I didn’t know how she did it—our cupboards are usually a graveyard of half-empty spice jars and questionable tins—but Carrie had emerged from the kitchen with three steaming bowls of pasta that actually tasted like something from a fucking bistro.
She’d sat there, poised and calm, and watched us like a hawk until every last bite was gone.
Now, after a series of awkward rotations through our cramped, steam-fogged bathroom, the reality of the sleeping arrangements was finally staring me in the fucking face.
I stood in the doorway of my room, staring at my bed. It was a standard single—narrow, pushed against the ballerina-clad wall, and definitely not designed for two grown arse fucking women, let alone one who carried herself like she required a king-sized suite at the Savoy.
"Carrie..." I started, rubbing the back of my neck. "I can sleep on the sofa. Really. This is... it’s tiny. You’re going to be so uncomfortable."
Carrie didn't even look up from where she was neatly folding her silk robe over the back of my desk chair. She was in a silk nightgown now, her skin glowing softly in the dim light of my bedside lamp.
"Alex," she said, her voice trailing off into a warning hum. "What did we say about protesting?"
"I'm just being practical," I muttered, though my heart was already starting to fucking hammer at the thought of her actually staying.
"And I am being final," she replied. She walked over to the bed and peeled back the duvet, gesturing for me to get in first. "Wall side, darling. I’m not having you fall out in the middle of the night."
I scrambled over the covers, pressing my back against the cold wall to make as much fucking room as possible.
Carrie slid in beside me, and the bed groaned under the unaccustomed weight.
We were close—impossibly fucking close. Every inch of my side was pressed against hers, from my shoulder down to my ankles.
The mattress was thin, and I could feel the fucking springs, but as Carrie reached out and pulled the duvet up over both of us, none of that mattered.
She turned onto her side, facing me, and draped a heavy, protective arm over my waist. Her scent—that lingering mix of sandalwood and her own clean warmth—was everywhere.
"It’s a bit of a squeeze," I whispered, my face inches from hers.
"It’s perfect," she murmured, her eyes soft and dark. She reached out, her thumb tracing the line of my jaw before settling on my cheek. "You're safe, your mother is stable, and I am exactly where I want to be. Sleep, Alex."
I let out a breath I felt like I’d been holding since the date began.
I closed my eyes, tucking my head under her chin, feeling the steady, rhythmic beat of her heart against my chest. The ballerinas on the wall might have been fucking watching, and the bed might have been small enough to be a joke, but as Carrie’s hold tightened slightly, I realised I’d never felt more at home.
***
I woke up in a fog so thick I was not even sure what fucking year it was.
My hand fumbled blindly across the bedside table, searching for the shrill chirp of my phone until I finally killed the fucking alarm.
I stretched, the cramped muscles in my back protesting the tiny mattress, and rubbed the sleep from my eyes.
Then, the cold hit me. The spot beside me was empty.
My heart did a sickening drop. Did I fucking imagine it all? Was the date, the hospital, and the way she held me all just some fucking fever dream brought on by stress? I sat up fast, my head spinning, and my eyes frantically scanned the room until they landed on the leather bag sitting by my desk.
Thank fuck.
The door pushed open with a soft creak, and Carrie walked in.
She’d swapped the silk for a dark, charcoal-grey cashmere jumper and a pair of dark jeans.
My breath hitched. Fuck me. I’d seen her in power suits and high-fashion dresses, but seeing her in jeans—the way they hugged her legs and made her look just a little bit more reachable—was a whole new level of fucking incredible.
She set a steaming mug of coffee down on my bedside table, right on top of a fucking half-peeled teddy bear sticker I hadn't thought about in a decade. She didn't say a word at first, just sat on the edge of the bed and combed her fingers through my messy hair.
"Good morning," she murmured, her voice still thick with that morning rasp. "I’m glad to see you finally rejoined the living. You slept through my alarm, the shower, and the kettle."
I blinked, taking a grateful sip of the coffee. "I feel like I passed out. I don't think I moved once."
Carrie smirked, a playful glint in her eyes. "Oh, you were definitely out. And you were snoring, as usual."
I groaned, hiding my face in my hands. "I do not snore, Carrie. That’s a vicious lie."