Chapter Thirteen #2
Frustrated with him as much as herself, she sat up, leaned over the end of the bed to peer down at him. It was shadowy dark, but she could make out the lump of him lying on the hard, cold floor. She’d never be able to sleep knowing it.
“This isn’t an invitation.”
She couldn’t see his eyes in the dark, but somehow she could feel his gaze all the same. “What isn’t?”
“It’s a big enough bed to share. If you can stay on your side.”
Maybe she expected him to put up a little bit of a fight, but he wasn’t a martyr. He immediately moved. He tossed the pillow onto the side of the bed she wasn’t on, then she felt the weight of the mattress dip.
Why had she thought this would make it easier to sleep? Sure, guilt wasn’t eating at her now, but everything else was. How close he was. How odd it was to feel the weight of someone else in her bed. The smell of her shampoo that he must have used mixed with whatever made Copeland… Copeland.
How had she gotten here, and how was she ever going to explain it all to her family when they returned?
Natalie thought she was sleeping with Copeland, and now she was in the most literal way possible. Rosalie would be furious she’d kept so much to herself. Franny would be hurt, because she could visit her parents anytime, so Audra really should have told her, let her come home.
And now she probably had to tell them both before she wanted to, just so they didn’t hear some small-town-gossip version of everything.
Just the thought had the tears returning. She didn’t know how to make it okay. How to make Rosalie not worry. How to keep Rosalie from ending her honeymoon early, or Franny rushing home. They wouldn’t want her to handle it alone and they should.
The guilt of it was too much. This was her ranch, her problem.
She wiped one of her now wet cheeks against the pillowcase.
She breathed carefully through her mouth as the tears streamed down her face.
She wouldn’t let him know she was crying, this man who was stubbornly and platonically sharing her bed. She wouldn’t…
“This isn’t an invitation either,” he muttered, drawing her close, then rolling her over so that she was tucked into his warm, hard chest. He ran a palm down her hair, brushed tears off her cheeks, and held her while she cried.
And because he did, she let it out. Sobbed out the whole awful ordeal. Just like what she’d said to him about telling her the whole story about his ex-wife. It was releasing toxins or something. She hated it, but at least it served a purpose.
She didn’t like to cry on Rosalie’s shoulder, or Franny’s, or Vi’s. Or Natalie’s or anyone’s. It made her feel weak and like she’d failed.
But this wasn’t so bad.
COPELAND WOKE UP to sunlight streaming on his face, and a warm body moving next to his. For a moment, he instinctually held on. It was nice. It was…
His eyes popped open. He would have shoved into a sitting position, but he was met by blue eyes fixed on his face.
God, she was pretty. He didn’t know how she could give off the aura of slim, delicate spring flowers knowing how strong, sturdy and determined she was. He knew she could handle anything and had, but he wanted to erect full fortresses to keep her safe.
He went from half-asleep to alert in a second, realizing he had one arm under her shoulder, and she was resting her hand at his inner elbow. Like maybe they’d fallen asleep, wrapped up together, after she’d cried herself empty.
He should get up. Leave this warm cocoon of…something. He’d comforted her while she cried, and that was it. Friendly. Helpful. He was hardly going to use an emotional breakdown as a kind of catalyst for…whatever this moment seemed to demand.
But she didn’t get up. She didn’t scoot away. They were so close their noses were almost touching. And neither jumped up to move. Neither looked away.
He knew he should do something to stop this, but she was just so soft and warm. So damn beautiful it hurt. Something was beating through him. Heavy, important, mixing with desire and the hazy notion that this wasn’t at all wrong.
It was, instead, exactly right.
She moved closer, close enough her body brushed his. Her mouth was just a whisper away. Her blue gaze never left his face.
He could close that little distance between them. He could kiss her, touch her. He could calm this thudding, needy conflict inside of him.
He could extricate himself. Slip out of bed. Pretend this wasn’t happening.
But he waited, watching her.
Until she pressed her mouth to his. Sweetly and gently. Her hand coming up to trace his jaw, then raking through his hair. She was a descent into soft, honeyed perfection.
“Just so we’re clear,” she said against his mouth. “This is an invitation.”
“Good, because I’m taking it.” He rolled her under him, gratified when she made a little sigh of pleasure beneath him. When she met every kiss, every touch, every whisper with one of her own. And it released all that had tied so tight, because he’d wanted this for days now. Just this. Just her.
Sex had been a game since his divorce. Fun. Spontaneous. And very, very superficial. Something to do, something to prove to himself that even if he kind of sucked in the whole being-a-human department, he still was one.
There was nothing superficial about the way her skin felt, the way she moved under him, the way she kissed him. That was all a heavy, complicated braid of emotion, responsibility, want and something deeper than he had the words for.
It wasn’t just sex, certainly wasn’t a game. And he could try to convince himself of either of those things, but she already had too much weight in his heart for him to manage.
Being tangled up in her was a privilege and a hope. A tangled, changing dance. As pleasure throbbed, flowed and released in shuddering tandem that took both of them under in the early morning light.
He tucked her close and closed his eyes, and for a moment just breathed. There was so much to do, to handle. This was a distraction that wasn’t right when danger lurked.
But, damn, it felt right.
“I guess you’ve got chores you’re late for now,” he said when he trusted his voice not to sound heavy with all the emotions waging war inside of him.
She made a contented noise, low in her throat. “I might have finally found something worth being late to chores for.”
He should be distancing himself, but instead he pulled her in tighter, settled his face between her jaw and shoulder. Inhaled the faint, flowery scent of her skin that came from the soap she used in the shower last night, and it settled through him. Calm. Warm. Right. “I can make you even later.”
“No, you can’t and that’s not a challenge.”
He made a considering sound, pressed his mouth to the underside of her jaw. She shoved at him, but with a laugh and with a lightness in her whole body he hadn’t seen this whole time.
It was a heady feeling to be the one that got to take some of the weight off Audra Young’s shoulders. Dangerously heady, and maybe he would have given himself a stern talking-to about that, but he heard the chime of a doorbell ring through the house, and they both stilled.
“Expecting someone?” he asked casually, trying to remind himself that people who shot out windows and set fires didn’t ring the bell, so he wouldn’t go tearing downstairs, gun in hand.
“No.” She hopped out of bed, and he got one tantalizing glimpse of everything before she tugged on a hideous, fluffy robe. “It’s probably Natalie.” She sighed, weight seeming to pile back on her shoulders. “She probably heard about the fire. I’ll be right back.”
“Audra, wait—”
But she was already out the door. He cursed under his breath as he got out of the bed. It probably was Natalie, but she didn’t know that for sure, and with everything that was going on, she had to be more careful.
He couldn’t find his shirt, but he wasn’t about to let her go downstairs on her own, even if was just Natalie. Twenty-four seven meant twenty-four seven whether she liked it or not, and sex certainly didn’t change that. He pulled on his pants as he walked, then jogged down the stairs.
She had the door open, and he could hear her even though he couldn’t see who was on the other side yet.
“Oh. Hello. Are you looking for Copeland?”
“Yes.” Laurel’s voice. “And you. We’ve gotten a few small breaks in tracking the cremains. I was on my way out to Sunrise for a different case and thought I’d stop by and catch you two up.”
“Oh. Okay. Well, come on in.” Audra moved out of the way and Laurel stepped in. She glanced around the room in a quick, cop sweep. She spotted Copeland at the bottom of the stairs in nothing but his unbuttoned jeans. Her eyebrows immediately raised.
“I—I’ll make some coffee,” Audra offered, a little too brightly. “We’ll talk in the kitchen.” Her cheeks were bright red, but she moved with just the hint of a limp, toward the kitchen, in her bathrobe.
Laurel followed Audra, but her gaze stayed on Copeland. He couldn’t quite read it. Not contempt. Definitely not approval. Something more appraising.
“Nice tattoo,” Laurel said under her breath as she passed him.
Cursing, Copeland went upstairs to find his shirt.