Chapter 10
Titus
Iwatch as Mariah eats her toast. She chews slowly, waiting for a second after swallowing one mouthful down before attempting another.
It’s been years since I’ve seen someone suffering from the debilitating effects of morning sickness, but it’s still easy to recognize.
I was fairly certain Mariah was pregnant before this. But now?
Now I’m positive.
The signs are all there. Her temperamental stomach. The way one food will taste good until suddenly it doesn’t and she has to switch to something different. The exhaustion I can see in her eyes. The way she sips ginger tea pretty much all day long.
And then there’s the passing out.
“Is your blood pressure low?” I need to understand what led to her dropping to my kitchen floor. Need to know exactly what it is so I can figure out how to monitor it. Learn how to keep it under control.
“Maybe?” She shrugs. “I don’t remember what it was last time I had it checked. It’s been a while.”
I try to keep my reaction neutral. I might not have been a part of the world for the better part of a decade, but I still know it’s rude to ask a woman if she’s pregnant. So until Mariah feels comfortable enough to tell me, I’m going to have to tiptoe around the matter.
“Maybe you should make an appointment. See if they can figure out what caused you to pass out.” Deep in my bones I feel like I already know, and it’s grinding through my guts.
When I ran out of my room, I wasn’t thinking about the consequences of what I was doing.
All that mattered was getting downstairs to make sure Mariah was okay.
Even if I had considered the fallout, I would have assumed it’d be nothing more than what I normally face when someone sees me.
Pity. Sadness. The questions they’re dying to ask.
But none of that happened with Mariah. At first I thought she was still delirious when she smiled at me.
But as the minutes ticked by and she still hadn’t reacted to the sight of my burned face, it started to become clear she wasn’t going to pity me.
That there weren’t questions waiting to be asked.
Mariah acted as if she was looking at who I was before.
And for a heartbeat, I almost felt like who I was before. It was short-lived, but it was still there. A few seconds of weightless bliss.
And then it all came crashing back down. Heavier. Darker.
Closer.
Except, instead of reminding me of my failure, being close to Mariah reminds me of all I’ve lost.
And yet, I can’t make myself go back upstairs. Not when she could fall again. When she still looks like she feels so terrible.
So, instead of finishing my breakfast and going back to work, I take our empty plates to the kitchen, brew her a fresh cup of tea, and join her on the couch, turning on the television I’ve never watched.
Mariah seems as shocked as I am by the choice. Her honey eyes are wide on me as I settle in next to her. “What are you doing?”
“I’m sitting here with you to make sure you don’t pass out again.” I peek her way from the corner of my eye. “It doesn’t seem like you’re in a rush to book a doctor's appointment, and I’m not super interested in finding out what kind of liability I’d have if you hurt yourself.”
One side of her mouth tips up. “I find it interesting that you weren’t super worried about that when I was crawling around your floors or climbing onto your counters while I cleaned.”
I flip through the on-demand options, picking the show she’s been watching. “If you wanted help cleaning, you probably should’ve passed out sooner.”
The sound of Mariah’s laugh is light and airy, but it still slams into me with a force that steals the air from my lungs. How long has it been since I’ve made a woman laugh like that? Hell, how long has it been since I’ve interacted with a woman outside of my job?
Years.
“I’ll remember that the next time the floors need to be mopped.” Mariah curls up beside me, resting her cheek against the back of the couch, watching me instead of her show. “Can I ask you a question?”
The right side of my face gets hot. Like it knows what’s about to happen. “Sure.” The word is flat. Emotionless. The way I try to be.
“Where’s all your laundry?” She reaches out, pinching the fabric of my T-shirt and giving it a little tug. “Because you don’t smell like you’ve been wearing that for days, but I know for a fact you haven’t been in the laundry room since I got here.”
Again, Mariah surprises me. I thought for sure she was going to ask about my scars. Instead, she wants to know how my underwear gets clean.
And for some reason, I find that amusing. I find her amusing.
“How do you know I don’t sneak in and wash my clothes the same way I snuck down and stole your cake?”
I’ve felt more than a little bad about how much of her day I sneakily invaded.
How many hours I spent watching her cook and clean and relax on my sofa.
And I still feel a little bit bad about it, but I’m starting to think Mariah might have done the same thing.
That while she couldn’t technically get her eyes on me, she was still investigating.
Trying to figure out as much about me as she could.
Including when I wash my socks.
Mariah shoots me an unimpressed look. “Because my rooms are directly above the laundry room, and the sound of the washer spinning is pretty darn noticeable.”
Interesting. It’s never occurred to me how the rest of the house works. It’s been irrelevant. I live in my secluded wing and have really only left to visit the kitchen when my stomach tried to eat itself.
“There’s a smaller laundry room attached to my bedroom.” It seemed a strange addition to me at the time, but my mother swore it was necessary. That I’d appreciate not having to haul my laundry up and down the stairs. And she was right.
Having the washer and dryer right there in my rooms also made it easier for me to shrink my world. Easier to hide from all the things that haunt me. The memories that won’t seem to let me go.
Mariah’s expression turns thoughtful. “That is actually really smart.” She gives me a grin. “I’m kinda jealous.”
“You can use the washer and dryer in my rooms if you want.” The offer is out of my mouth before I can stop it. And once the words are said, I can’t take them back.
And I should take them back. Mariah has already tainted the rest of my house with her presence.
Made it impossible for me to go anywhere without thinking of her.
The way she randomly hums as she works. The sound of her grumbling about me when she can’t find something she needs or discovers an area still cluttered with my mess.
The sight of her curled on my couch, sound asleep after trying to lure me out with the best damn cake I’ve ever had.
I can’t have her do the same thing with my rooms. It’s bad enough I sit and stare at her on the camera feed all day. I don’t know what I would do if she permeated that space in the flesh.
Mariah’s eyes widen, one hand resting against her chest in exaggerated surprise. “Was that a formal invitation to your domain?”
My lips curve all on their own at her teasing. “Is that what we're calling it now? My domain?”
“What do you call it?” Mariah angles a brow. “Please don’t tell me you refer to it as your man cave. That is such an annoying phrase.”
“Which part of it is annoying? The man part? Or the cave part?” Yet more words I should not say slide through my lips.
But I can’t help it. I could try to convince myself I simply want to know more about the person under my roof, but I would be unsuccessful. I can lie to myself about lots of things, but so far it seems like Mariah isn’t one of them.
Since I can’t lie, I’m going to choose to ignore. If I don’t acknowledge the reason I’m curious about her, maybe it will fade away. Evaporate like so many other bright spots in my life have.
Mariah presses her full lips together, the plush curve of them flattening as they slide against each other. She seems to be deciding what answer to give me, and I have to assume she’s choosing between the truth or a lie.
And I really fucking want the truth. Not because I think I deserve it, but because I want her to think I deserve it. That I can be trusted with it.
Mariah sighs, shrinking in on herself. “Well, a cave has never screwed me over, so I guess I have to go with the man part.”
If I wasn’t ignoring so much where Mariah is concerned, I would probably identify the emotion washing through me as relief. Satisfaction at what is likely a confirmation there’s no man currently in her life. But I am ignoring, since I’m not stupid enough to believe I could take that place.
Not that I should want to. I like being alone. I like the safety it provides. Both from what could be and what has been.
“Maybe you just don’t have enough experience with caves.” I insert a little levity for her sake and mine. I don’t like the cloud of what might be sadness—or maybe disappointment—that’s drifted across her features.
And I don’t like what I would do to make it disappear.
The lengths I’ve already gone to trying to make her happy prove how few limits I have where she’s concerned.
There’s a good chance she’d end up with a fully equipped laundry room of her own.
Whatever expensive kitchen appliances the Internet tells me she would like.
Possibly a pony.
And a miniature cow.
My comment serves its intended purpose, and Mariah gives me a dazzling smile, her mood lightening almost immediately. “Maybe.”
“Maybe when it warms up, I can show you a few of what could qualify as caves here on the property.” Another offer jumps right out, this one even more ridiculous than the one before it.
I don’t leave my house. I sure as hell don’t invite other people to leave it with me.
But if I don’t show Mariah around her new home, someone else will. Someone like Tucker, who will want to show her way more than just what the property offers.
Or worse, Walker. Walker won’t try to get Mariah in bed—right away—like Tucker would, but his laid-back temperament and tidy ways will likely be real fucking appealing to her.
Plus he’s seen her in the flesh and already knows she’s a hell of a good cook, so I have to assume he’d be inclined to take a stab at getting close to her.
Any man with half a fucking brain would.
And apparently, that includes me. Because it’s not lost on me that instead of making sure she was okay after her fall and running right back to my rooms, I’m sitting beside her.
Offering to show her caves and let her use the washer and dryer in my room.
I’m thinking of ways to make her happy. Make her smile.
And unfortunately, I’m successful at it. Once again, Mariah’s face lights up, her expression so warm and eager I’m afraid I will do questionable things—possibly illegal ones—to have her look at me this way all the time.
“I would love that.” The words have barely cleared her distractingly full lips before that damn cloud slides across her face again.
But this time, something else happens. Something that not only confirms my suspicions, but also offers a loose timeline.
Mariah’s hand slides to her stomach, curving against the spot just beneath her belly button as she forces her smile to remain.
“But I guess it will depend on how things are going when it warms up.” Her skin had started to pink up, but now it seems to pale again.
“A lot can happen between now and then.”
I know. That’s what I’m afraid of.
Without thinking, I lift a hand to my right side, scratching at the scars I will carry for the rest of my life. The ones that remind me of how I failed the people I loved most.
Those scars are also likely responsible for the draw I feel toward Mariah. The need to keep her safe that crawls across my hide, making it feel tight and itchy. It’s a constant sensation that has only abated twice since she’s been here.
Everything inside me seemed to calm the night I came down when she was sleeping on the couch and saw her face-to-face for the first time. When I retrieved a blanket from my room, covering her up so she’d be warm.
And now. Sitting beside her, making sure she’s eaten and unharmed. Having her within reach in case she needs something.
Needs me.
Maybe that’s why she ended up here. The reason the universe—and my mother—dropped Mariah into my peaceful little world.
Not to torment me—though she does—but because there’s no one else to take care of her.
No one else who would have seen the signs she was about to lose consciousness.
No one else who understands how awful morning sickness—and pregnancy in general—can be.
Thinking Mariah could be here because I’m the best thing for her feels scarily good. It gives me a purpose I thought would never be mine. Offers an opportunity that was taken from me.
An opportunity I swore I would never have again. Did everything in my power to avoid the possibility it could happen. I hid away. Isolated myself from the world and all its terrifying possibilities.
Because while I could be the best thing for Mariah and her baby, she is the worst thing for me.