Page 44 of The Wrecked One

I reached out, about to do exactly that, but he gripped my wrist, stopping me. His eyes narrowed, realizing what he’d done, and he immediately let go, backing up into the bathroom.

“It’s okay. I’m okay. You can hold my wrist.” I gulped. “Or my hand.”

He pointed his eyes toward the vanity and away from me.

“Maybe I haven’t been able to handle anyone setting their hands on me these last few months, because you’re the only one I wanted doing it.” Shit, the tears were on the verge of coming again at that revelation. “But you were gone. So, if you couldn’t hug me, then I didn’t want anyone else to, either.”

He closed his eyes, hanging his head. Instead of responding to my statement like I hoped he would, in an impassive voice, he requested, “Do you mind stepping aside? I need to get dressed, and my clothes are in my bedroom.”

I blinked back the tears, knowing they’d simply forge a new path later, and did as he asked.

He opened his eyes and quickly walked around me.

I mindlessly trailed behind him. After four months of not seeing him, I didn’t want to lose sight of him. What if he disappeared on me again? Or, now that he knew there was a team on standby, what if he called Carter and told them to come pick me up and take me away?

Oliver slid open the closet door as I entered his bedroom. Ignoring the lack of an invite, I went over to his dresser and picked up the bottle there. Cologne I doubted he’d found in these parts of Canada.

“Margiela’s Replica.” I had the same bottle in my bedroom, and I’d spray it from time to time and pretend Oliver had been in the room. It kind of reminded me of a campfire. “You get deliveries all the way out here? Kind of surprised.”

“Bought it at the airport in Zurich last week. And no, no deliveries here.” He tossed his clothes on the bed, then set his eyes on the dresser.

Ah, he needed his briefs, and I was in his way. Shockingly, he’d yet to shoo me from the room.

“You’ll be sleeping in here this week. I’ll take the couch. There’s just this room and Dad’s.”

I couldn’t help but follow the V-lines that disappeared beneath his towel as he rested his hands on his hips. “I don’t want to take your bed.”

“Then you shouldn’t have come here, so too damn bad.” There was less bite to his tone than I’d expected for his words. Progress? “It’s lumpy and uncomfortable. You’re going to sleep like shit, but the couch is worse.” He tipped his head toward the door. “Now, go. I’ll get dressed and finish making your breakfast.”

I opened my mouth, but he lifted a hand, his silent request for me to shut up. “Fine, fine. I’ll be a good girl. For now. And be quiet. Well, quiet-ish.”

He scrunched his brow, staring at me. Oh come on, take the bait, I know you want to. You want to say something back to me.

When he refused to give me what I was sure we both needed, a fake argument that’d help break the tension, I set down the cologne.

“Breakfast, okay. Maybe that’ll help your mood.”

“Oh, for sure, I’ll be right as fucking rain after that.” His voice was low and deep, and I doubt he’d meant for his tone to come across so sexy, but it did.

And my body reacted to it. Hell, my nipples hardened.

Oliver’s eyes flew to my breasts. Of course the sports bra I had on under the tee, because I despised regular bras and underwire, hid nothing, so . . .

“Go.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Please.”

I swallowed, not obeying. Because this was a big deal for me. This feeling. This desire.

He gave me his back, tearing a hand through his hair, but he quickly realized his mistake. The mirror over his dresser still gave me a clear shot of his dick starting to tent the towel.

A shocking smile snuck up on me, and maybe I hallucinated it, but I’d swear his lips twitched into an almost-smile, too.

There’s hope. For the both of us.

16

MYA

Breakfast turned out to be quiet and uneventful. Oliver opted not to speak. Not a single word. Instead, he spent his time shoveling pancakes in his mouth and washing them down with black coffee.

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