Chapter 2 #3
He sets the plate aside and turns the faucet off as I stalk out of the room.
I feel him following me as I flee down the hall and into the bathroom.
I’m about to shut the door when Brandon’s palm comes down against the grain.
My heart races as I push against it, but he pushes back, winning this battle of wills by creating a gap just wide enough to slip inside the room with me.
Sighing in resignation, I sink to my knees and rummage beneath the sink.
Brandon closes the door and leans against it as I pull out a bottle of isopropyl alcohol and some cotton balls.
Ignoring him now, I soak one of the cotton balls.
I’m about to press it into my cut when it disappears from my hand.
He nods at the toilet. “Sit down. I’ll do it.”
There’s an air of authority in his voice that I’ve never heard before. It doesn’t intimidate me, but it does suck the petulant energy right out of my body.
Giving up my fight, I lower the toilet lid and sit down.
Brandon washes and dries his hands at the sink, then crouches down before me.
Cautiously, he takes my hand—acting as if I might suddenly decide to strike.
But I’ve been completely immobilized. His skin is cool to the touch, firm and pleasant against mine.
I try to tamp the surge of memories that bob to the surface as he carefully sterilizes my wound, but that’s like trying to drown a boogie board.
While watching him work, his gaze soft, his expression thoughtful, guilt throngs me like a swarm of angry wasps.
I’ve acted like a total brat.
“You’re still angry with me,” he notes, undoing a Band-Aid.
Well done, Sherlock. “I’m sorry for stabbing you.” I gaze at the pocket on his shirt. “And punching you. You were just trying to help.”
He smirks as he wraps the bandage around my finger. “I deserved it.”
“Hardly.”
He glances down at his hand. “At least I’m up to date on my tetanus shots.”
I smirk. “What about rabies?”
He chuckles. Finally, his gaze flicks up to mine.
Our faces are only inches apart. The smell of his woodsy, masculine cologne permeates the confined space, making it difficult to think straight.
He’s still holding on to my hand. His breath comes and goes softly against my skin, steady and calm—just like him.
Everything about this moment is far too intimate for my liking.
Pulling my hand away, I shove it between my thighs and look down.
“Like I said,” he says, waiting for me to look at him again. But I can’t. “I deserved it.”
Silence.
I expected him to demand we talk, to hash things out with me right here, right now.
To work out our issues like we’re a couple headed for divorce, sitting side by side on a therapist’s couch.
But instead, he sits in reflective silence, staring at me.
It’s one of his many tactics of manipulation as a psychiatrist . . .
Sensing I’m not going to be the first to crack, he breaks the silence. “How are you doing?” His head tilts as he looks me over.
“I’m fine.” Not that it’s any of your business anymore.
His gaze pans to my arms, which are now curled protectively around my torso. “Prove it.”
Eyes bulging, I lean back. “Brandon—”
“You can say no. But it would give me peace of mind.”
I sigh. I can at least give him that satisfaction—if nothing else.
Reluctantly, I hold my arms out, and he wastes no time pushing up the sleeves of my thick sweater.
Cupping my wrists gently between his open palms, his thumbs graze over my old scars—some he’s seen before, others newer.
His feather light touch tickles, and I shiver against my will, aching for more of him. His time, his attention, his touch.
The trouble with Brandon? The disillusionment. Feeling completely safe in his presence, while also knowing he is a grave danger to my bleeding heart.
Once he’s satisfied, he pulls my sleeves down. “I’m proud of you, Spitfire.”
Chagrined, I hop up and put the cotton balls and alcohol back beneath the sink. I need to get out of here. He’s already infiltrating my heart like an enemy invasion, and I’ve barely been alone with him for five minutes.
Brandon rises from the floor, towering over me at his full height. “When are you going to forgive me?” he asks quietly as I rush toward the door.
I pause and glance over my shoulder. He’s right behind me now, encroaching on my personal bubble. “There’s nothing to forgive,” I lie, feigning indifference. Just like I did the night everything changed between us—when we went from best friends to maybe something to absolutely nothing overnight.
His hand settles on my shoulder. “Evie . . .”
I pinch my eyes closed as the warmth of his touch radiates into my soul. I can’t take this. The distance. The heartache. The pretending. The strain of pain in his voice.
As the heat of him presses closer, I’m overcome with regret.
I never intended to ice him out, but it was the only way I knew how to protect my heart.
Glancing up at him, I hesitate, wondering how he would react if I hugged him right now—if I just turned around, wound my arms around his waist, and sunk into his embrace.
Hugging Brandon always felt like falling into my own bed after sleeping in hostels for months, and I’m more than a little tempted.
But would he hug me back? I wouldn’t be able to handle the rejection if he didn’t.
“Evie?”
We both jump and part like school kids caught making out in the janitor’s closet.
“Yeah?” I shout, pressing my ear to the door.
“There you are,” Grandma calls. “People are getting ready to leave.”
“Be out in a minute!”
When I turn back around, Brandon is scratching the back of his neck. He points at the door. “I should . . .”
“Let me go first.”
He catches my wrist as I turn to leave. I look down at where we’re connected, startled by the firmness of his grip. My eyes find his baby blues. They’re brimming with anticipation. Or maybe desperation. “When can we talk?”
I pull on my hand. “Not here. Not now.”
Or ever, if I can help it.
He steps closer, his gaze intense. Focused. “Where? When?”
“I don’t know,” I grit out, tugging against his hold. “Let me go.”
He does, but slowly. Reluctantly.
Eager to make my escape, I poke my head out into the hall. The coast is clear. Relieved, I slip out without looking back.