Chapter 7
Seven
River
His face.
It’s filled with a pain that calls to the wealth of hurt inside me.
I don’t know why he’s here—or how he learned where I live.
Then again, he’s rich and has powerful connections.
I’m sure it wasn’t that hard.
“How’s Violet?” I ask when he stays still and quiet.
The pain turns to softness in a flash that has my heart squeezing. “Fine,” he says.
“Just fine?”
He lifts and drops one of those big shoulders. “She likes the gourmet salmon treats I bought her.”
I still, my spoon suspended a few inches from my mouth. “You bought her gourmet salmon treats?”
A nod. “The pet store recommended them.”
My soup is dripping so I plunk my spoon in my mouth, barely tasting it because I’m too focused on image of Thorn in his suit and tie—or maybe without the jacket, in a rumpled button down, the sleeves rolled up and—
“You’re not eating,” he prompts gently.
And I realize I’ve been sitting here, dissociating (okay, fine, so I’ve been thinking of Thorn, a-freaking-gain). I scoop up another bite, trying to ignore the fact that his bowl is half-empty, which likely means I’ve been doing that “dissociating” for long enough for him to eat.
“You sure can cook, little hen.”
I inhale, start choking on the bite I’ve just shoved in my mouth.
“Shit,” he mutters, rounding the table and reaching out like he’s going to pat my back.
I freeze.
So does he.
Then I start coughing again. “I’m—” Cough. “Oh—” Cough. “‘kay—” Cough.
He pulls his hand back, returns to his seat.
And I can’t help the sliver of disappointment that skates through me.
Because he didn’t touch me.
Fear of him doing exactly that. Disappointment that he didn’t.
God, why am I so messed up?
Thorn’s eyes flick toward me as I pick up my spoon again, as I take a bite and successfully chew and swallow.
Only once that’s accomplished does he speak again.
Unfortunately, it’s in regard to the last thing I want to discuss.
“What’s with the chair?”
My gaze drifts to the door, to the locks—engaged—then back to his deep green stare.
The same stare that sees far too much.
“Why did you really come here?” I say instead of answering.
“The chair, little hen,” he counters.
I feel a prickle of temper slide through my chest but I just exhale and take another bite of food before going for another tactic. “Why did you agree to adopt Violet?”
Another shrug. “I had no choice. She claimed me.”
That’s not exactly true—the no choice part. Yes, Violet had claimed him during their first meeting, crawling right up his leg and settling herself against his chest. But no, he could have stepped back, could have let Chrissy find the kitten another home.
He didn’t.
“And the gourmet salmon treats?”
Deep green eyes on mine. “She likes them.”
“She’s a cat.”
“So? She has preferences.”
I expect there to be a hint of dry humor, of putting me on in the statement. But the complete seriousness of his tone tells me otherwise.
A kitten has preferences.
And he listens to them, works with them.
Same as he’s done with me.
Something scary and unpleasant—and also nice—flutters through my belly as I scoop up another bite of soup, realize I’ve reached the bottom of my bowl.
“Do you want me to heat you up some more?” he asks quietly.
“No.” I reach for a piece of bread. “There’s plenty here.”
“Carbs first?”
“What?”
He snags his own piece of bread. “I’ve heard you and Briar and the other women talk about the healing properties of carbs.”
I chuckle and his eyes come to mine, hold.
“Is that not true?”
“Oh no, it’s very true. I’m just surprised that you’ve paid any attention to our nonsense.”
“I find,” he says slowly, “that I pay attention to everything about you.”
My lungs expand in a sudden rush of air.
But I don’t know what to say.
So, I don’t say anything.
Instead, I reach for another piece of bread. Thorn reaches too and our fingers brush.
The spark of sensation has my pulse jumping, but amazingly, I don’t go tense.
I just keep my hand where it is.
We both do.
Then he, oh so slowly, oh so gently, runs the tip of his index finger along the back of mine.
Lightning through my veins.
Heat in my belly.
Dampness between my legs.
My breathing is nowhere near steady, but it’s not because I’m scared. Rather, it’s because in the quiet of my apartment, the quiet of this moment…I feel safe.
Crash!
The loud noise echoes out in the corridor, making me flinch and jerk back.
I hate it.
Hate that I can’t stop it.
Hate that it’s so freaking embarrassing.
Hate the awkward silence that crashes down afterward.
His expression changes, and though I expect pity to replace the gentleness, instead I find something that surprises me.
Those green eyes are filled with something sharper.
Something protective.
And I’m…relieved.
“Sorry,” I whisper.
Thorn says nothing, just pushes up to his feet and walks to the door, checking the peephole for a long moment.
Then he reaches down and unlocks the door, steps out into the hall.
I hear his voice echo through the wood and a moment later, he’s back, closing the door behind him, throwing the lock…
Positioning the chair beneath the doorknob.
My breathing hitches.
“Your neighbor dropped a box,” he says quietly. “It was heavy so carried it in for her.”
“Right,” I whisper, my throat tightening unexpectedly.
Thorn slowly walks over, slowly reaches for my bowl. “You’re finished?”
I nod.
He grabs his own bowl, the now empty plate of bread, and moves to the sink.
“I can—”
“I’ve got it,” he murmurs.
“But—”
“You don’t happen to have any more of those cookies, do you?”
My brows drag together. “My daisy cookies?”
A nod.
“You liked it?”
He pauses with water flowing over the plate, his gaze coming to mine and holding as he says with absolute sincerity, “It was the best thing I’ve ever eaten, little hen.” Then adds, “And I’ve had your homemade mac n cheese.”
I blink.
Then grab the container of cookies as he loads the dishes onto the drying rack, walking over to him as he straightens and dries his hands.
I stop close.
Not near enough to touch him.
But so that I can feel warmth radiating from his body.
“They’re not perfect,” I murmur, opening the container and holding it up.
“Doesn’t mean they’re not beautiful,” he says, taking one. But he’s looking at me.
Telling me.
I take a cookie and snap the lid back on, putting it back in its spot and bustling around the small space doing God knows what.
Well, doing God knows everything to avoid looking at Thorn.
“River.”
The velvet rasp in his voice has me glancing up at him.
“You don’t have to pretend you’re okay around me.”
The words are nice. But they’re not reality.
Because pretending is how I survived—pretending to be calm, to be happy, that I wasn’t afraid.
“That sounds nice in theory,” I say.
“It should exist in reality too.”
My chest aches unexpectedly.
Because Thorn saying things like that with complete sincerity—like safety should simply be normal, like gentleness should be expected…
Is terrifying.
But the most terrifying part of all?
Is me wanting to believe him.