Chapter 25 #2
“The worst part is feeling like I lost my father twice. First, when he died, and second, when I realized he was never the man I thought he was.” Her voice starts to wobble, and I swallow around the tightness in my throat.
“I can’t confront him. I can’t work through my anger and hurt and betrayal.
He’s gone. I’m angry and hurt, and then I feel guilty about feeling that way.
There is nowhere for my feelings to go. It’s just so unresolved. I hate it.”
“And you didn’t tell Chevy because you didn’t want him to go through the same thing.”
One thing Winnie has shown me in the brief time I’ve known her is how she picks up on what other people need, how she watches for ways to be kind.
Like what she did for me tonight—getting my family here, making shirts, celebrating my win.
I keep insisting to everyone I don’t need help. I don’t need anyone but myself.
It’s a lie. Probably everyone knows it, but Winnie most of all.
“You’re only the second person I’ve told.”
She doesn’t need to tell me who the first is.
I thought I felt rage before, directed toward her father.
But it burns stronger and hotter now, thinking about Dale.
Earlier, I’d seen him at the same time Winnie did, and watched as she made her way over, a determined and cheerful expression on her face.
It made me relieved, honestly, to see that she seemed over him.
But things shifted when it became clear Dale had been with that woman while with Winnie. You knew, she said to him. I squeeze my eyes closed, feeling my nostrils flare. Winnie told her boyfriend about her father, while Dale was essentially doing the exact same thing.
I’m not a violent man, though I seem to have more of these urges around—or because of—Winnie. Throwing that guy in the pool last night, wanting to track down Dale and throw him off the roof of the building … this isn’t like me.
I focus on breathing, on the feel of Winnie’s hair tickling my chest. Sliding my hands to cover hers, I let my thumbs smooth tiny circles over Winnie’s skin, the repetitive movement calming me. I press a kiss to the side of her head without stopping to think about whether or not it’s a good idea.
I’ve moved firmly into the land of Who Cares If It’s a Good Idea. Maybe it’s the darkness or Winnie’s vulnerability activating my protective side, but whatever hesitations and objections I’ve had are gone.
Winnie is mine.
Mine to protect. Mine to care for. Mine to …
I swallow hard again, my mind dizzy in reaction to the word I wanted to use there. Love. Mine to love.
It’s way too early to know something like that. It’s probably the late hour and the depth of Winnie’s raw emotions. I’ll wake tomorrow knowing this isn’t—and can’t be—love. I can worry about whatever emotion it IS then, too.
“You take good care of people, temp. I admire that.” I lower my voice to the gentlest whisper. “But who takes care of you?”
Winnie trembles a little in my arms, and when I lift my head, I can see tears leaking from her eyes. A tight sensation pinches in my chest and I nuzzle closer.
“Don’t cry, beautiful.”
I shift my hold on her, lifting my arms until my thumbs slide over her cheeks. Emboldened by the way she closes her eyes, sighing with contentment, I replace my thumbs with my lips, leaning over her to kiss the wetness on her cheeks.
“James,” she whispers, and I cannot take my eyes off her lips.
“I've got you,” I say, and then I tilt my head, lean in, and brush my mouth over hers.
I am instantly vibrating with electric heat. The somber, emotional mood gives way to something completely different. I understand why people talk about making love during a time of intense grief, why physical connection can become a need, a healing balm.
The ragged feelings in my chest ease as my lips move over Winnie’s . Slow down , I chide myself, wanting something different than the explosion in the elevator last night when I couldn’t hold back any longer.
It takes all the control I have, but I keep my kiss a caress.
Tender and light and soft. I want to soothe the ache in Winnie, smooth the rough, painful places as well as I can with my mouth.
But when she makes a small sound and arches toward me, I release a little bit of my control, losing myself in Winnie.
I want my kiss to assure her of my intentions, though truly—I’m not sure what they are, other than to protect, to cherish, to keep her close and safe. I want to explore; I want to treasure. I want her to know her value and worth and how royally both her father and her ex screwed up.
But I’m also not ready for this to go beyond a kiss. When she wiggles and shifts, seeking more, pulling me closer, I press a last soft kiss to her lips and spin her back around so we’re spooning again.
She groans in protest, but I only tighten my grip, chuckling. I press a kiss to her hair, then her temple, then bend to kiss her shoulder. “Sleep, temp.”
I stroke her hair with one hand, holding her in place with the other. After a moment, I feel her sigh and relax against me. In no time at all, her breathing evens out. When I’m sure she’s asleep, I lean closer in the darkness, whispering a truth I’m not ready to admit in the light of day.
“I knew one kiss would never be enough. Not when it comes to you.”
I’ll worry about what, exactly, this means later.