Chapter 13 #2
A man who let anger exist without trying to cure it.
A man who continued showing up when I had nothing to give him except a trust I could not explain.
“I want to ask you something.”
“Ask.”
“What did I love about you?”
His expression shifted. “That is difficult to answer without sounding unbearably pleased with myself.”
“Take the risk.”
Reid leaned back.
“You said I was steady.”
“You are.”
“You liked that I did not speak merely to fill silence.”
“You speak constantly.”
“Recently.”
“I doubt you underwent a personality transplant because I got hit by a truck.”
“You said I made decisions quickly. You appreciated that until the decisions concerned you.”
“That seems accurate.”
His mouth curved.
“You liked my hands.”
“I still do.”
His eyes darkened by a fraction.
“You liked the way I smelled after work.”
Heat touched my face. “Did I?”
“Cedar. Salt. Engine oil.”
“That combination should not inspire desire.”
“Your judgment was often questionable.”
“What else?”
He hesitated.
The humor left his face.
“You once told me I never made you wonder whether I wanted you.”
The answer struck deeper than the others.
I looked down at our hands.
“That mattered.”
“Yes.”
“Because of Denver.”
“In part.”
I remembered enough of Denver to understand.
Men who desired me in private but treated me with distance in public.
Men who became cruel when kindness required courage.
Men who wanted affection without the vulnerability of acknowledging it.
I remembered longing for someone who would not make me guess.
Then I had found Reid.
Lost him.
And found him again without knowing I had.
“What did you love about me?”
“Everything.”
“That is not specific.”
“It is accurate.”
“Try harder.”
Reid looked at me for a long moment.
“You were kind when no one could reward you for it.”
My throat tightened.
“You stayed late to repair equipment customers could not afford to replace. You claimed you enjoyed the challenge because you didn’t want them to know you were reducing the bill.”
“That sounds financially irresponsible.”
“It was.”
His thumb stroked the back of my hand.
“You rescued every wounded animal that came near the yard. You argued with me over business expenses, then spent twice Leah’s suggested amount on gifts for the girls.”
“Also irresponsible.”
“Extremely.”
His gaze held mine.
“You laughed with your entire body. You became shy after sex, even though you were rarely shy while it was happening.”
Heat rushed over my face.
Reid’s mouth curved.
“You requested detail.”
“I did not anticipate that category.”
“You asked what I loved.”
“Continue.”
Something tender entered his expression.
“You always knew when I was pretending not to be tired. You made the apartment feel inhabited. Before you, it was only a place where I slept.”
I looked around.
The narrow hall.
The unfinished puzzle covering the dining table.
Marlowe’s toys beneath the window.
The old green lamp.
I could not remember making the apartment ours.
But it no longer felt like another man’s house.
It felt like a place where someone had been waiting for me.
“That’s enough.”
Reid’s attention sharpened. “Too much?”
“No.”
My voice had roughened.
“Exactly enough.”
We sat without speaking.
Fatigue crept back through me, softening the edge of the furniture and making the rain sound farther away.
I hated how quickly my energy vanished.
One emotional conversation and my brain behaved as though I had run for miles.
Reid noticed.
“Food.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You ate half a pastry and some eggs.”
“I had soup.”
“That was yesterday.”
“Was it?”
Alarm changed his face instantly.
I hated how quickly I could frighten him.
“I’m joking.”
“You are not amusing.”
“I am deeply amusing.”
“You need lunch.”
“It is almost evening.”
“Then you require a very late lunch.”
He stood and went to the kitchen.
I watched him.
Reid moved with a physical assurance that drew my attention regardless of what he was doing. He was large in the practical way of a man built by work rather than mirrors. His strength lived in his back, his forearms, the easy balance of his body.
He reached into a high cabinet.
His shirt pulled taut across his shoulders.
Desire moved through me with startling clarity.
Images from my phone rose uninvited.
Reid’s hand spread over my bare back.
My body beneath his.
White sheets tangled around our legs.
I still knew what I liked sexually. The accident had not erased desire, preference, or the physical understanding of my own body.
The person who had apparently satisfied those desires stood ten feet away making toast.
I wanted him.
That frightened me less than it should have.
Reid glanced over his shoulder.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re staring.”
“I have visual rights.”
“Do you?”
“We kissed.”
“That does not provide unlimited access.”
“It should.”
He turned back to the counter, but I saw the smile.
I liked making him smile.
Maybe that had survived too.
He returned with toast, cheese, and sliced pear.
I ate because refusal would lead to relentless questioning.
Halfway through, I said, “Did we have rules?”
“About what?”
“Our relationship.”
“Many.”
“Examples.”
“No arguing in the workshop.”
“Reasonable.”
“No going to sleep without saying whether we were still angry.”
“That sounds excessive.”
“It was your rule.”
“Then it was wise.”
“No using sex to avoid difficult conversations.”
I nearly inhaled a piece of pear.
“That was mine?”
“Mine.”
“Did we follow it?”
“Not reliably.”
I laughed.
Pain immediately struck behind my eye.
Reid’s hand lifted, then stopped before reaching me.
“I’m fine.”
“You winced.”
“Laughing hurts.”
“That seems unfair.”
“Everything is unfair.”
The words came out darker than I intended.
Reid sat beside me again.
“Yes.”
No correction.
No optimism.
Only agreement.
I looked at him.
“How are you not furious?”
“I am.”
“With me?”
“Never.”
“With Elias?”
“Sometimes.”
“The company?”
“Yes.”
“The doctors?”
“When they cannot answer me.”
“Yourself?”
Reid turned toward the windows.
“Most often.”
“Why?”
“I should have replaced the van. I should have been driving that morning. I should have called when the weather worsened.”
“That is ridiculous.”
“I know.”
“None of those things caused the crash.”
“I know.”
“You sound like me.”
“Unfortunately.”
I set the plate down.
“The truck changed your life too.”
“Yes.”
“Do you ever wish I hadn’t survived?”
Reid’s head snapped toward me.
“No.”
The word struck the room with the force of a slammed door.
“Never.”
I held his gaze.
“Not for one second,” he said. “Not on the worst day. Not if you never remember me. Not if you decide to leave.”
The intensity in his voice made my chest ache.
“I’m sorry.”
“Why would you ask me that?”
“Because you lost everything too.”
“I lost the life we expected.”
Anger burned through the control in his face.
“I did not lose you.”
“You might.”
“No.”
The certainty startled me.
He leaned closer.
“You may decide you do not want me as your partner. You may choose another home, another job, another man. That would hurt more than I can explain.”
His voice dropped.
“But you would still exist. You would still laugh and work and argue. You would continue feeding dogs things that shorten their lives. I would rather live in a world where you do not choose me than in one where you died.”
My eye burned.
I looked away.
“I shouldn’t have asked.”
“You can ask me anything.”
“You’re angry.”
“Yes.”
“At the question.”
“At the suggestion that your survival could be a burden.”
He drew in a breath and softened.
“I’m sorry I raised my voice.”
“You didn’t frighten me.”
He waited.
“I like when you’re angry on my behalf.”
A rough laugh left him. “That may be neurological damage.”
“No.”
I reached for his hand.
His fingers closed around mine.
“Did you truly ask me to marry you because of taxes?”
His expression flattened. “You have decided to weaponize that story.”
“Indefinitely.”
“You do not even remember it.”
“I require no memory. It is perfect.”
“I had a different plan.”
“The ring.”
“Yes.”
“What does it look like?”
His gaze sharpened. “Would you like to see it?”
I thought about the safe below us.
About a ring chosen for someone I could not remember being.
“No.”
Relief and disappointment crossed his face at the same time.
“Not yet,” I added.
“All right.”
“What if I never want to see it?”
“Then it remains in the safe.”
“Would you sell it?”
“No.”
“What would you do?”
“Keep it.”
“Why?”
“Because I bought it while believing in something.”
The answer made me ache.
I lifted my hand and touched his beard.
Reid went still.
“I’m not the man you bought it for.”
“No.”
“Would you choose me anyway?”
His eyes held mine.
“Every version.”
I leaned toward him.
This time, I did not ask aloud.
I stopped close enough for him to understand.
Reid waited.
He made me cross the final distance.
I kissed him.
The choice was not cautious, though the kiss began that way.
His mouth met mine with restraint more dangerous than hunger. He let me decide how close to come. Let me angle my head, deepen the contact, test the soft warmth of his lips.
My fingers moved through his beard and around the back of his neck.
Reid’s hand settled at my waist.
He did not pull me toward him.
He supported me.
My body recognized the security of it.
A shiver passed through me.
His thumb stroked my side.
I opened beneath his mouth.
The kiss changed.
Heat spread low through my body, insistent and immediate.
Reid tasted of coffee, pear, and the salt air that seemed permanently caught in his skin. His beard rasped over my jaw. The pressure of his mouth increased when I leaned closer, and a quiet sound gathered in his throat.
I wanted more.
More of his hand at my waist.
More of his mouth.
More of the control I could feel him using for my sake.
My right hand tightened behind his neck, and I kissed him harder.
Reid answered without taking over.
His tongue brushed mine.
The contact sent a sharp pulse through me.
I moved closer too quickly.
Pain flared through my healing hip.
I tore my mouth from his on a hard breath.
Reid released me instantly.
“What happened?”
“My hip.”
“One to ten?”
“Four.”
“Sharp or dull?”
“Stop turning into a medical form.”
“Noah.”