CHAPTER 24
Sybil
I was warm, not too warm, but cozy warm.
Curled into myself in the fetal position, I was facing a source of heat so delicious I refused to turn away from it. It was like I’d somehow squeezed myself into a perfectly neat box, just like a cat, and loafed.
My hands grasped onto fabric, each palm comforted with the soft feeling. The surrounding air smelled of wood and leather, and there was a heavy beating in my ear where I’d pressed it against the softest pillow. I felt cradled.
Letting out a moan of comfort, my perfect box tightened around me with the most delicious constriction.
Hazy with sleep, I tried to recall the events of last night.
Warmth enveloped my lower back under my fuzzy pajamas.
It moved, gripping my skin before sliding up my spine and resting between my shoulder blades, caressing.
Trying to make sense of it, I realized it was a hand.
My eyes flew open. A curve of tattooed skin greeted me, and the hemline of a shirt collar that wasn’t mine. My head rose and fell, as though atop a lazy ocean wave on a life raft. I didn’t dare move, taking stock of my limbs.
Hands: Grasping a shirt. Not my shirt. Also not grasping, but holding on for dear life.
Arms: Folded against my chest.
Legs: Tucked up into me, good.
A hand stroked my back again. Not good. That box? It was Nash—all of Nash—wrapped around me like a security blanket.
I must have defaulted to comfort mode. It seems I’d found a comfortable hidey-hole.
This was bad.
I took stock of all that was visible from my vantage point.
Blankets: Check.
Ceiling: I’m still in the basement.
Movie room: That’s it. That’s where I was.
Where’s Bill?
Where’s Bee?
Where’s Mr. Beans?
I chanced moving my head, trying to see if I could spot anything more. Regret was a bitter thing when Nash’s hand on my back grazed lower. His chin, which had been cradling my head, moved.
A rumble, like a sleeping dragon, graced the air, another arm reaching under me and his other hand found the back of my head. It brushed over my hair to my neck and rested there.
Oh, shit. I was stuck.
He drew in a deep breath, causing my head to rise on an enormous wave.
I released the fabric in my hands, instead splaying my fingers and pushing away.
He only held tighter, a deep raspy chuckle filling the air.
I retaliated with more pressure, and the surrounding hold relented. Leaning back, my eyes found his very awake ones. There was nothing I could do but stare back, like a raccoon caught raiding the cat food. I was all up in him, curled in a ball and cradled amongst the expanse of his giant body.
I clambered away, and he grunted. I’d kneed him in the gut on accident—possibly the balls.
Bill, who had been curled somewhere behind Nash, popped his head up. The tag on his collar rattled. I ran my fingers through my hair, scooting even farther back and away from Nash. He didn’t move, still relaxed against the pillows. He watched me like a hawk stalking its prey.
His features were soft with sleep. Ruffled around every sharp edge, and masculine-looking. His legs were crossed at the ankle, an arm behind his head, and the other lying across his chest. His mouth was curled in a smirk, eyes half-hooded and unbothered.
The edge of his t-shirt rode up his torso, showing a peek of firm abs and the hem of dark boxers before they sank below his jeans and belt. Dim lighting made the entire moment feel more intimate. It was mortifying.
I forced myself to look away. He was too much, like staring at the sun.
My gaze found Bee. She’d rolled all the way across the room to the base of the bar, curled against it.
She had a leg stuck on a stool, an arm crunched under her.
Mr. Beans balanced atop her hip, blinking at me with possessive triumph gracing his features.
I swallowed thickly, not wanting to look back at Nash.
“Um,” I began, looking at the ground to avoid his gaze. I searched for my phone among the blankets. Finding it, I shot to my feet. “I need to—use the restroom.”
Sweet escape. It’s all I could think of.
I took off toward the stairs. Bill leapt up to follow. Navigating each step, I made my escape. Once upstairs, it was a quick race past the kitchen to my room. I all but slammed the door behind me, Bill’s tail narrowly making it past the threshold. I clicked over the heavy lock for good measure.
Christ on a cracker, Sybil.
I was panting, and Bill was whimpering at my feet. The knob of the door steadied me for a moment before making a B-Line for the bathroom next. I closed that door behind me as well.
Walls; there needed to be walls between us.
Hand shaking, I brushed my teeth. It dropped into the sink a few times before I deemed it good enough and holstered it on its stand. Running my fingers through my hair, I felt flushed. In the mirror, my cheeks appeared blotchy.
I began pacing, fanning my fuzzy top a few times to invite in some cool air. My fuzzy socks were askew on my feet, one bunched and the other halfway up my calf. I tore them off, throwing them in the hamper so my feet could breathe.
My pajamas, smelling of wood and leather, taunted me. Turning on the shower, I stepped out of the pajamas of shame and tossed them in the laundry basket beside the socks.
Had I made things worse by running? My brain wouldn’t let it go, asking myself on repeat.
Stepping in, I let the water err on the side of arctic.
After a moment stewing in my embarrassment, I washed myself off.
It took some effort to scrub the makeup from my face.
Once satisfied I was clean of his scent, I got out.
In the closet, I chose a new set of underwear, sweatpants and a sweatshirt.
I’d pick up the pieces and act like nothing happened. Honestly, far more dramatic stuff happens on Hallmark. This wasn’t a big deal, Sybil. No one got hurt, and no one was upset, except me.
My memory from yesterday returned. The day felt long and full of moments. I’d never felt so many things, experienced so many challenges, or felt so many emotions. My cheeks hurt from laughing, and my spirit felt full.
Me, Sybil Kauffman, socializing.
And not just that, but flirting? I’d crammed a lifetime of teenage experiences into one night. The friendships, the nights out, the casual drinking, and the sleepovers. My brief time in school was marked by bullying, and I was ostracized along with the other misfits.
All of it was new to me.
Exiting the bathroom, there was a single knock at the door. A sheet of paper slid under a moment later, floating to a stop before the rug. I tiptoed over, seeing “I left coffee” written in familiar bold black Sharpie.
Waiting and placing my ear against the door, I listened for any additional sound.
Feeling pathetic, but not above further embarrassment, I dropped to the floor next, looking under the crack of the door.
It didn’t appear that anyone was there, but I spotted the base of a coffee mug winking at me from the other side.
OMG, I wanted that. I needed that.
I sat up, clasped my hands together and fortified my resolve.
Unlocking the door, I slowly and carefully dragged the mug across the floor and into the room before closing the door and engaging the lock once more.
I didn’t bother moving from the floor, hoisting myself into a sitting position and crossing my legs.
My lips found the edge of the mug, and creamy vanilla coffee met my taste buds.
I moaned.
Bill curled beside me, head in my lap. His enormous eyes assessed mine. I ran my finger up the length of his snout and over his head. His eyes shuttered closed.
I’d been brave talking and socializing as much as I had, and though my social tank was fuller than ever, my energy tank felt empty.
My phone dinged. Fishing for it in my hoodie pocket, I extracted it and tapped the screen.
Cat: How was the weekend?
I was relieved it was Cat for the first time in a long time.
Me: Eventful.
Cat: Oh?
Me: Did you light my house on fire on purpose? I feel like this is all part of your evil plan or something.
Cat: LOL. No. The fire marshals will be over there today though, looking into the starting point and what caused it. We’ll find out this afternoon.
I already had my suspicions, and I wasn’t proud. For the past few weeks I’d been cleaning my studio and was careless with the garbage. I’d used a lot of turpentine, and I knew better than to leave the rags lying around instead of throwing them in the proper bin.
That guilt kept me from looking out the front window yesterday. I couldn’t handle taking it in, feeling responsible and idiotic.
Me: Is it bad?
Cat: You have to rebuild. If the smoke didn’t ruin it, the water did.
Cat: At least now you can remodel.
Me: I liked it the way it was.
Me: All the antique details?
Cat: Perhaps we could look for some antique details at a salvage store. There are a lot of places we can get some cool stuff, I promise.
Cat: It’ll be fun!
Me: Yeah. Maybe.
Cat: Have you left your room?
I dreaded that question.
Me: Yes.
I didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of more Sybil-improving info. Cat seemed to sense this and gave my message a thumbs up without further reply.
I tucked my phone back into my pocket, taking my coffee to bed with me. Crawling in, I hauled the heavy blankets up. I imagined myself looking like a sardine in a can, curling the lid back on. It was time to marinate.
Reaching for the remote, I turned on the TV and sank into a Monday morning episode of Golden Girls. I needed to disassociate and put this morning’s event on the back burner.