Chapter Three #2
I thought about it. It was possible. “No, I don’t think so. I control Amelia’s access to cookies. I don’t think she’d risk cookies to tease me.”
“You control her access to cookies?”
“She’s diabetic. It’s not severe, but she has to limit sugar. Amelia is serious about her sweets. And sneaky. I search her room every day for contraband. I don’t think she’d risk dessert just to see me squirm. Especially since she missed the show.”
“Good point.” Gage stood. “I’m going to pour this out. Want to come find something to wash the taste away?”
“Yes, please.”
I followed Gage down the hall to the kitchen, holding my breath so I didn’t inhale the steam wafting off the tea. Whatever was in this, it was the foulest brew I’d ever smelled. I tipped my mug over the sink with relief, turning on the faucet to wash the tea away.
Gage picked up the box on the counter and turned it over, looking for the ingredient list. “It’s all in Hanzi,” he murmured. Then, louder, “It’s in Chinese. I can read some Chinese, but I don’t know any of these characters.”
“Herbal medicine wasn’t included in your Chinese lessons?” I asked, rummaging through the cabinets for something to clear our palates. There was no way I’d sleep tonight if I couldn’t get the taste of this tea out of my mouth.
“Not exactly,” Gage said with a wry smile. “I don't need to know what they put in this tea. All that matters is it tastes disgusting.”
Gage handed me his cup to pour out in the sink and crossed the room to rummage in the cabinet above the electric kettle. Pulling out a box of tea, he handed it to me, saying, “Here, make two cups of this. I'll be right back. I've got an idea.”
He strode out of the kitchen, making a face as he swallowed hard, trying to get the taste of that tea out of his mouth. I did the same. I should've known anything that smelled so bad would taste worse.
Again, I filled and started the electric kettle.
Gage had given me a box of decaffeinated English breakfast. I wondered what his plan was.
Decaf English breakfast wouldn't be my first choice to cure insomnia.
I usually drank a chamomile based blend that was supposed to be relaxing.
It wasn't bad, but it didn't do much to help me sleep.
Gage was back a minute later, a bottle of whiskey in his hand. He went to the pantry and returned with a jar of honey.
“Tell me that's not your brother’s whiskey,” I said, eyeing the bottle cautiously. Just a few weeks ago Charlie Winters's fiancée, Lucas Jackson, had stopped by to ask Aiden's blessing for his proposal to Charlie, and after receiving it had made off with Aiden's best bottle of whiskey.
Though, apparently, that had actually been his second best bottle.
His best bottle had been stolen by Charlie six months before.
Aiden Winters was not easygoing on the best of days, and he was not happy about losing two bottles of expensive liquor.
Secretly, I thought it was funny, and suspected that deep down he might too, but I was an employee.
The last thing I wanted was to get caught raiding the liquor cabinet.
Gage turned the bottle over in his hands and his lips quirked up.
“I heard about that,” he said. “It'll be a while before he finds something good enough to replace the bottle Lucas took.
This is just the company whiskey from the library.
I usually try not to drink when I can't sleep, but I don't think tea alone can scrape the taste of Amelia's tea off my tongue.”
“Good point,” I said. I watched as he poured hot water over the teabags in our mugs, added a generous dollop of honey to each, and a much bigger slug of whiskey than I would have.
Almost to myself, I said, “I don't usually drink when I can't sleep either.
I'm not much of a drinker anyway, and I'm up almost every night—” I trailed off.
“I know what you mean,” Gage said. “It feels like asking for trouble. Because if it works—”
“Then you're just trading insomnia for a drinking problem,” I finished.
Gage nodded, his blue eyes meeting mine in understanding and sympathy.
He gave a final stir to my mug and handed it over.
Still cautious after the last sip of tea, I took a careful taste.
Whiskey was not my favorite drink, by far, but the thick honey and familiar English breakfast smoothed the edges just enough.
It was delicious, and even better the bite of the whiskey washed the taste of Amelia's tea from my mouth. Heaven.
“Have you always had insomnia?” Gage asked. I looked up to see his eyes on me, measuring and curious. I didn't want to answer. Alone with him in the dark and cozy kitchen, sipping the tea he'd made, I’d been lulled into a sense of safety.
I didn't realize how far my guard was down until I heard myself say, “No. I was always a good sleeper. My mom used to say I was sleeping through the night at two months old.”
“Me too,” Gage said. “I got even better in the Army. Nothing teaches you to catch sleep where you can like the Army.” He took a sip of tea and looked at me over the rim of his mug. “We both know why I can't sleep. What about you? How long have you had trouble sleeping?”
How to answer that question? Was there any way I could tell the truth without giving away too much? Stalling, I took another sip of the tea.
“Sophie?” Gage asked. He was being nosy, and I could've told him it was none of his business, but I could hear the concern in his voice.
Maybe the whiskey loosened my tongue, because I said, “It started after I got married.”
Gage's eyes went hard and flashed to my left hand. I knew what he was looking for and I said, “He's dead. He died in a car accident almost two years ago.”
Eyes narrowed on my face, Gage said slowly, “You must've been young when you got married, or you weren't married very long.”
I took another sip of tea and wished I’d told him to mind his own business. “Both. I was young. Just finished nursing school. I was working my first job, in the ER, when he came in with a broken arm. We were only married three years.”
“It wasn't good?” he asked, his words so gentle they drew tears to my eyes.
It hadn't been good. It had been very, very bad. And I wasn't going to tell Gage Winters about any of it.
I shook my head, my eyes on my tea.
“Have you talked to anyone about it? A friend? Or a therapist?”
I almost laughed at the irony of Gage asking me that question. Blinking away the moisture in my eyes, I met his gaze and challenged, “Have you?”
Gage looked away. I wasn't surprised. I could fall back on the easy explanation that macho guys like Gage didn't want to talk about their feelings.
But the truth was, a lot of people didn't like to talk about their feelings.
I wasn't beating down the door of the closest therapist to spill my guts about my horrible marriage.
Both of us knew better. I was a nurse for heaven’s sake.
I knew exactly why I wasn't able to sleep, and I knew that therapy would probably help.
Still, two years had passed since Anthony had died and set me free.
I'd managed to sell our house and move away.
I'd had four different jobs with different families until I'd ended up at Winters House, and during none of that time had I made a single appointment with a therapist.
Gage surprised me when he said, “I know I should. I have a buddy who went through a bad time after an IED blew up under his caravan. Some of the guys gave him shit for it, but he said talking to someone helped.”
I drank the rest of my tea in three long gulps and set the mug in the sink. “I'd better get to bed,” I said.
I moved to walk past Gage when he stopped me with a hand on my arm. “Sophie, you know you're safe here, right?”
Surprised that he could read me so well, I looked up expecting to see compassion, or sympathy, in his blue eyes. I didn't expect heat. Interest. The desire in his eyes was at odds with his gentle question.
Testing him, I asked quietly, “Am I?”
Gage tightened his hand on my arm and drew me closer until my breasts brushed his hard chest. We were separated by inches of fabric. His T-shirt, my robe, and my nightgown beneath. My body didn't care. My nipples tightened, and my breath grew short.
Gage dropped his head until his lips brushed my temple.
His hold on my arm loosened, his hand stroking up and down, fingers circling my wrist, then letting go to slide to my elbow before trailing down again.
The warmth of his fingers, even through the sleeve of my robe, was soothing.
Soothing, and something else. Something dangerous that sparked my nerves and set my heart beating faster.
His breath brushing my skin, smelling of honey and whiskey, he whispered into my ear, “You'll always be safe with me, Sophie. I promise.”
His hand left my arm, and he took a step back. If he was waiting for me to speak, he was going to be disappointed. I had no idea what to say.
I was a coward. Crossing my arms over my chest, I whispered a hasty, “Good night,” and fled the kitchen.
For a second, my breasts pressed to his chest, his mouth at my temple, I’d been sure he was going to kiss me.
I'd wanted him to. I wanted Gage Winters to kiss me.
I don't think I needed to list all the reasons kissing Gage Winters was a terrible idea.
Laying in bed, staring at the ceiling, I did it anyway.
First, I worked for his family.
Second, third, and fourth, he was newly home, was working through a trauma, and was in no position to start a relationship.
Fifth, I didn't do one night stands.
Sixth, I had pretty much zero sexual experience.
Anthony had been my first, and sex with him had been brief and dull. I was pretty sure sex involved more than laying there with my eyes closed, but that's what Anthony wanted from his wife. I’d learned quickly to give Anthony what he wanted.
Gage Winters would expect more than an untutored girl in his bed.
At that thought, I stopped listing all the reasons kissing Gage Winters was a bad idea. It was too depressing.
Instead, against my better judgment, I imagined kissing Gage Winters. That lower lip, full and soft. The way he looked at me, the heat in his blue eyes.
When he’d pulled me against him, my nipples had gone tight, and warmth had gathered in my belly and between my legs. I hadn't felt desire for a man since my wedding night. Years had passed, and my body had been dry and disinterested. Sex was something other people enjoyed. Not me.
All I had to do was think about kissing Gage, and my body came to life.
That couldn't be good. I was not going to sleep with my employer’s cousin. I wasn't.
I wasn't going to kiss him. I wasn't going to flirt. I was going to be completely professional and appropriate. Just like I always was.
That didn't mean I couldn't daydream about it.
Rolling over and wrapping my arms around my pillow, I smiled to myself in the dark.
I wasn't going to kiss Gage Winters, but knowing that I wanted to, that my body could still feel desire for a man—that was a relief on a level so deep I couldn't fully process it.
I just let the knowledge slide through me.
I wanted to kiss Gage Winters. And in my dreams, I would.