Chapter 8 #2
His expression immediately shifted into its customary seriousness. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t—”
“No, no!” I interrupted in a rush. “I didn’t mean that in a bad way.
I just…” I sighed, words failing me. “I’m not really used to anyone…
” I let my words hang there, not sure how to characterize this particular void in my interpersonal relationships.
I didn’t have many friends. Certainly not anyone who teased me or was playful with me in any way, honestly, even when I was a kid.
Even my friends from the old coffee shop had been careful around me, maybe sensing there was something different.
Or maybe I just gave off a vibe that kept people at a distance.
I shook my head, clearing away thoughts of how Whit had so quickly filled gaps I didn’t know existed. Heat crept into my cheeks. I cleared my throat. “Anyway, thank you for your help. Really. I think I’m okay now.”
Despite my assurances, Whit stayed close, valiantly absorbing June’s barbed glances as I picked up Henry from her apartment.
And he stayed at my elbow when we made our way to the elevator.
And he stepped inside with us, pressing the button for the fourth floor before I could insist for a third time that I was fine.
When we reached my apartment, Whit slipped off his suit jacket and draped it over the back of the couch before rolling up his shirt sleeves. “What would you like for dinner, Henry?” he asked with a grin. “Spaghetti tacos?”
Henry burst out laughing. “Yuck! No!”
Whit looked up at the ceiling as if thinking. “Hmm… How about fried frog legs and turtle soup?”
Henry gasped. “No way! That’s gross!”
Whit rested his hands on his hips. “Okay, then you tell me, sir—what sounds good?”
Henry’s eyes lit up. “Chocolate chip pancakes!” He grabbed Whit’s hand and pulled him toward the kitchen. “C’mon! I’ll show you where everything is.”
Whit shot me an amused glance and winked. “We’ve got this.”
I sat in the living room for several minutes, stunned, listening to the concerning clattering and banging around of bowls and skillets and to Henry’s laughter—his big, heartwarming belly laughs—as Whit apparently committed unspeakable culinary crimes.
Henry shrieked with laughter. “No, Mr. Whit! Not like that!” Another cackle. “Oh, my gosh!”
Smiling, I finally went to the kitchen door and burst into laughter.
There was pancake batter on the counter, the wall, the floor… An unreasonable number of dishes were already piled in the sink. Whit’s suit pants—which I imagined were extremely expensive—were splattered with pancake mix, and a smear of batter was on his cheek.
Henry turned to me, beaming with amusement, hair spiked with a glob of drying batter. “Mama! I don’t think he’s done this before!”
Whit grimaced apologetically. “I’m afraid Henry is correct. Cooking isn’t my forte.”
I shook my head, not bothering to suppress my amusement as I entered the kitchen and waved him aside.
“Let me show you how it’s done, Mr. Proffitt.
” I squeezed between them, my hip brushing against Whit and making my stomach flutter.
Struggling to ignore how close he stood, peering over my shoulder into the bowl, I added more mix to the soupy batter. “Wow…this is…”
“A disaster?” Whit supplied.
I turned to look at him and our eyes locked.
The air shifted, growing charged as we both seemed to realize how his body crowded mine in the small kitchen.
Our smiles faded. He leaned closer. His eyes dropped to my lips then back up to my eyes, and my heartbeat thudded against my ribs, my breath growing shallow.
And when he placed his palm lightly on the small of my back, my eyes fluttered shut on a sharp exhale.
“Mama!” Henry said, tugging my shirt. “Don’t forget the chocolate chips!”
My eyes snapped open, and I quickly shifted my attention to my son. “Don’t worry, baby. I won’t forget. Where are they?”
“Here you go.” Whit held out a bag of chocolate chips, his eyes still burning as his gaze met mine. “I think I have what you need.”
Oh, I thought, flushing, that delicious, tempting warmth flooding my veins, I have no doubt you do…
I was surprised to see Whit sitting on the couch when I returned from giving Henry a bath and tucking him into bed.
Well, sitting wasn’t exactly accurate. He was perched on the very edge of the cushion, hands laced together, shoulders stiff, his expression tense and unreadable.
Just like the last time he’d hung around after I thought he’d already left.
“Hi,” I said, stopping short, my curiosity evident in my tone.
He stood immediately, offering me the tentative, careful smile he used when he wasn’t sure where he stood with me.
“I cleaned up my mess in your kitchen,” he said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder toward the crime scene.
“I hope you don’t mind me still being here.
I wanted to make sure you were okay before I left. ”
I shook my head. “No, no…It’s okay. I appreciate your concern. I’m just…not used to anyone looking after me.”
“Well, you don’t have to worry about that now,” he assured me. “You have all of us at Dawes House to look after you.”
All of us?
As much as I wanted to believe that the residents of Dawes House meant what they said about being a “family,” the truth hit me hard and fast: there was only one person’s attention I cared about.
One person whose concern breathed life into something broken and frail in my heart.
But it wasn’t anything I had the right to ask for or even hope for.
Not when I had no idea whether it would continue as soon as I found a new place to live.
“Thanks, Whit,” I said. “I really do appreciate how welcoming everyone has been—well, until today. I really screwed up.”
He frowned. “What do you mean?”
I sighed and leaned on the back of the easy chair, picking at a loose thread rather than meet his gaze as I explained what had happened with Billy Wayne and Kitty—her fear, the police call, the foyer performance.
When I got to the part about Merilee’s odd comment, I glanced up to see an angry expression flicker across Whit’s features before smoothing into his usual stoic composure.
“I don’t blame any of them for being pissed,” I said quickly.
“I would be too. I took what Ms. Pearlie and the others said at face value, got too comfortable here, but I’m not family.
I haven’t been here long enough to get involved with anyone’s business.
And I won’t be here much longer anyway. Maybe a month or two tops.
I’ll be gone as soon as I can, and then you can rent this place to someone who can actually pay you. ”
I lifted my eyes fully this time, holding his gaze, needing him to see that I meant it and that I wasn’t going to impose on his kindness any longer than I had to.
And I now realized I had to leave before I came to care for him more than I already did.
Because the pull toward him was stronger than anything I’d experienced before.
Strong enough to scare me. Strong enough to shatter my fragile heart.
Something in my expression must’ve betrayed my inner turmoil because Whit grabbed his jacket from the back of the couch and crossed to the door without a word, but he paused when he grasped the doorknob and turned back to me.
“Zellie, don’t worry about what happened earlier.
There are dynamics among the residents that have nothing to do with you.
” He opened the door and stepped into the hallway before adding, “I hope you’ll stay. For as long as you need to.”
I shook my head, not wanting to be just a charity case. “Whit, I—”
“I’d like you to stay,” he interrupted, the way he held my eyes stealing the breath from my lungs.
I tried not to read into what he said or what I saw in his eyes, but the warmth I’d known before when he and I were side by side in the kitchen came back in a rush, and I swallowed hard, finding it impossible to speak.
When I didn’t answer, he turned away and shut the door behind him.
I stood where I was, my mind racing with questions I wasn’t sure I wanted to answer, when icy breath hissed in my ear—the same voice I’d heard in the foyer.
I spun around. Nothing. But I felt her. Felt her fear. Her rage. Her desperation.
“Please leave me alone,” I whispered. “I don’t know what you want from me. Just leave me alone!”
The energy dissipated instantly, and the humidity of the Savannah evening clung to me again, suffocating despite the window units rattling away.
I rushed to the door and turned the deadbolt, knowing it would only keep out the intruders of the flesh and blood variety, but it still offered the smallest sliver of comfort.
Not ready to sleep—certainly not ready to face whatever waited behind closed eyes—I curled up on the couch where Whit had been sitting moments before. The upholstery still held the scent of his clothes, his aftershave—clean, warm, masculine.
I turned on the TV, willing the soft flicker of light and the low murmur of voices on the legal drama to distract me from the memory of how good his arms felt around me. And how empty the room now was without him.