Chapter 16
Sixteen
River
Flour coats the marble countertops.
There’s cinnamon everywhere.
And somehow I’ve used nearly every mixing bowl in Thorn’s apartment.
But the counters are full of delicious treats.
Am I stress-baking?
Yes.
Am I stressed because it’s been just days since I was kidnapped and last night I slept in the same bed as a man I told myself I would never—ever—allow myself to get close to?
Also, yes.
Is that stress amplified by the fact that when I woke up this morning, the space beside me was empty?
It smelled of him, spicy and male and Thorn, so I know I didn’t dream it.
But I was alone.
Well, except for the note Thorn left on the bathroom counter, telling me he had to go out and one of Pascal’s guys was stationed by the elevator.
I asked him to sleep with me.
And he went out.
Hence…stress-baking.
The elevator chimes and I immediately tense, my hand reaching for a knife even though the mostly silent security man standing inside the hall doesn’t look concerned.
Scott does have his hand on his gun though, which is less reassuring—
The elevator doors open with a whoosh.
My heart flutters, actually flutters, as Thorn steps off the elevator, a bag in his hand.
His eyes immediately come to me…then drift away, seemingly taking in the counters full of baked goods and messy cooking implements.
“Thanks,” he murmurs to Scott, who nods and starts for the elevator.
“Wait!” I blurt and Scott turns back, his expression blank, though his brows lift in question. “Did you want to take some of this”—I sweep a hand out, indicating the spread—“with you?”
One half of Thorn’s mouth hitches up.
Scott shakes his head, says gently, “Thanks, River, but I’m good.”
“Okay,” I whisper as he lifts a hand and steps into the elevator.
Thorn lingers in the hall and I’m suddenly aware how ridiculous I’m being. How wasteful and dumb. God, there’s enough food here to feed an army and—
Fingers brush over my cheek and I gasp.
Thorn lets his hand drop to his side, puts distance between us.
Distance I don’t like.
But I woke up alone this morning and—
“I brought you this,” he says quietly, holding up the bag he was carrying.
“I—”
“It’s a phone,” he says before I can so much as take it.
“I—oh,” I whisper. “You didn’t have to do that.”
He ignores that and opens the bag, pulls out the new shiny smartphone. “I programed in everyone’s number that I could think of.”
“Yours?”
“What?”
“Did you program in yours?”
His eyes come to mine. “Yes. My home, office, and cell numbers.” Something flickers through his eyes, something like embarrassment.
But before he can say anything else—or apologize for something I don’t want him to—I step close to him, reach up and touch his jaw. “Good,” I murmur. “And thanks,” I say, slipping it from his fingers. “You didn’t have to do this, but I appreciate it.”
A nod before he looks at the counter. “You sure used a lot of bowls.”
I point the phone at him. “You don’t get to criticize me while benefiting from my sugar cookies.”
His eyes light up, and I almost smile.
I lean in, stage whisper, “They have extra sprinkles.”
His mouth quirks. “Do the sprinkles make them better?”
I gape at him. “Do sprinkles make cookies better?”
“I’m guessing from your reaction, that’s a stupid question,” he says, picking up a dirty bowl and carrying it to the sink, turning on the water.
I start to tell him he doesn’t have to do that.
Then realize there’s no point in arguing with him about it. And anyway, if the man wants to wash a bowl then the man can wash a bowl.
Hell, he can wash all of them for all I care.
“I believe the phrase is that there are no stupid questions,” I tell him as I start stacking cookies. Maybe Pascal’s security guys won’t eat them, but I bet Chrissy could take them to the rescue or pawn some off on those hockey players of hers.
“Meow?” I hear and turn.
Thorn’s grabbed a few more bowls, is elbows deep in washing up. “Wait just a second, cat,” he says, pulling his hands free. “I’ll dry my hands and—oh, shit. Fuck. Goddammit!”
I bite my lip, fighting a smile as Violet uses him like a climbing post.
“Meow,” she says proudly when she reaches his shoulder, perching proudly on top like she’s just climbed Everest.
“Pain in my ass,” he mutters.
But he doesn’t put her back on the ground.
And he doesn’t stop washing the dishes.
I move on to packing muffins, my thoughts drifting to the empty bed, wondering if he left strictly to buy me a phone or if he left because he thought last night was a mistake.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
I nearly squish the muffin I’m holding. “About you leaving?”
He jerks, nearly dislodging Violet, then steadies her with a damp hand on her back and spins to face me. “Leaving?”
Shit, I hadn’t meant to say it like that.
All accusatory and—
“Never mind,” I say quickly, turning back to the muffins.
There’s a pause then, “Little hen,” he murmurs from right beside me. “Come here.”
I bite my lip but pluck up my courage and face him. Though I keep my gaze from his, focusing instead on the fact that Violet’s still on his shoulder, still perched like a furry little parrot.
“River,” he says softly.
I suck in a breath, force my eyes to his.
“You giving me that last night was…”
Pathetic? Weak? Lame? Dumb? Stupid—
“…the best gift I’ve ever been given.”
My lungs expand in a rush. “Thorn,” I whisper. “I…” But I trail off. Because I don’t know what to say. Because it’s beautiful and means too much. Because—
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks again.
This time I grasp at the change in conversation instead of blurting out something dumb. “About my nightmare?”
He nods.
“No,” I answer honestly. “I lived it. I don’t want to keep doing it over and over again.”
A flash of anger in his eyes that’s carefully banked, and he slowly lifts his hand, lightly brushes his fingers over the bandage on my cheek. “I’m so damned sorry my shit got you hurt.”
“I want to hear more about that,” I murmur. “Want to hear more about your connection with the Lyons”—now panic flares through his eyes before it’s shoved away—“but my nightmare wasn’t about the kidnapping.”
His brows drag together. “Then what?” His face smooths out. “Your ex.”
My throat goes dry.
“You never have told me his name,” he says.
“Why?” I ask. “Because you want to find him?”
The second the words leave my mouth, silence drops heavily into the kitchen.
And Thorn’s expression tells me it’s precisely for that reason.
My eyebrows fly up. “What would you do?”
“It’s better if you don’t know.”
The blunt statement catches me off guard. “Seriously?”
He just shrugs.
Slowly, I shake my head. Honestly, part of me wants to give him Preston’s full name, the last four of his social and his last known address and just let Thorn loose.
The rest of me wants to move on.
Finally, I want to move on.
He just stands there waiting, watching.
I open my mouth, wanting to be done with my trauma, my past, wanting to prompt him to tell me about the Lyons, about what created those shadows in his eyes.
But…
Something stops me.
Tells me now’s not the right time.
Or maybe it’s that I want more of this, more of him—of being comfortable in his presence, of touching and talking and pretending the outside world is…
Well, not the outside world.
So, I don’t ask him to tell me about the Lyons, about what haunts him.
Instead, I snag a sugar cookie—one with extra sprinkles—and hold it up to his lips.
“Eat this and then try and argue with me about the importance of sprinkles.”