Total pages in book: 166
Estimated words: 160356 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 802(@200wpm)___ 641(@250wpm)___ 535(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 160356 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 802(@200wpm)___ 641(@250wpm)___ 535(@300wpm)
My breath catches at the back of my throat.
“Dec?” I murmur, tugging my robe in. “What are you doing here?”
Standing on the threshold, dishevelled but glorious, his stormy eyes search mine. “I needed to see you.” His voice is low, tinged with something I can’t quite pin. Urgency? Concern? His eyes darken more as they settle on my cheek, and he steps closer, his broad frame filling the doorway. “What the hell happened to your face?”
“It’s nothing.” I blink, my fingers unconsciously touching the cut on my cheek. The sharp sting catches me off guard, and I pull my hand away to find a little blood.
“What happened, Camryn?”
“Just an accident. Really, it’s fine.”
“Camryn.” His voice softens, but the intensity in his gaze doesn’t waver, and I shift under his scrutiny, acutely aware of the robe wrapped around me and the water trickling down my back from my drenched hair. Dec reaches out, his fingers hovering near my cheek. “Talk to me.”
I move back a pace. Talk. Sounds easy, doesn’t it? “You shouldn’t have come.” I don’t want him to see this place. Judge me. Wonder why the hell I live in such stark solitude.
“You didn’t answer my messages, and I—” He lets out a rough breath, undoing the space I’ve just put between us, his hand resting on my cheek. “I’ve been worried.”
My heart thuds, my resolve cracking under his touch. It isn’t fair how easily he can dismantle my walls, how just his presence filling this small, desolate apartment suddenly makes it bearable.
“I was just in the shower,” I murmur, unsure why I feel the need to explain. It’s quite obvious. “I haven’t checked my phone.”
His thumb brushes near the cut, as gentle as a feather. “You’re hurt.”
“It’s nothing, just a scratch.” My words are sure, though my voice betrays me. Yes, it’s just a scratch, but how it came to be marring my cheek isn’t nothing.
“You’re shaking.”
I hadn’t realised I was. Whether from the chill of the air or his closeness, I couldn’t tell you. Dec closes the door behind him, his presence wrapping around me like a warm, strong—needed—protective blanket. “Let me take a look,” he says softly.
I hesitate for a moment, but the pleading in his unsettled eyes unravels my flimsy resolve. Talk. I’m going to have to talk. The closer I’m getting to him, the closer he’s getting to my life.
Am I ready for that?
I’m not only letting him into my apartment if I don’t ask him to leave. “Okay,” I breathe, stepping back, opening up the way to him.
An odd sense of shame cloaks me as Dec passes me and casts his eyes around the space. I follow him, fixing my robe that really doesn’t need fixing, my mind emptying. I don’t know what to say, and for the first time when I’ve been with him, the silence is uncomfortable. What is he thinking? What is he making of my sparse apartment? I can’t even offer him a tea or a coffee, unless, of course, he takes them black. It also occurs to me as I trail behind him that he’s the first person I’ve invited in. My husband’s never invited—he just helps himself when he wants to put pressure on me. And on that thought, my eyes fall to the footrest where my divorce papers are, the pen on top.
Unsigned.
Dec stops, reaching up to his neck, scratching it lightly under his ear. It’s a classic sign of someone wondering what the fuck they’re faced with. I start preparing my response to his impending interrogation, my chest tightening with a pressure I’ve never had to deal with before. Or cared to.
“Have you just moved in?” he asks. I can’t see exactly where his eyes are directed, but I know, I just know, they’re taking in the boxes that are stacked everywhere, five high and as many wide.
“Yes,” I say, as simple as that, because what else can I say?
He turns to me, his face not questioning. It’s not anything, really. It’s just what I’ve come to expect—and like—from Dec. Impassive. No judgment. No pressing. “But . . .” He takes another peek around. Then he shrugs off his coat and lays it on the back of the armchair. “Never mind. Let me look at that cut.” He points to the doorway across the room. “Kitchen?”
I nod, and he wastes no time heading that way, causing the tightening in my chest to squeeze further. A vision creeps into my mind, one of my pills on the counter by the sink. Following him on quick, bare feet, I overtake him and slide them off the counter, slipping them into my robe pocket before heading to the fridge. I know he’s watching me. “Can I get you a water or anything?”
“What are the anything options?”
I still, staring at the fridge. “I’ve not got to the supermarket this week.”