Page 31 of Knot Innocent

She must have found some level of peace in getting her past off her chest as she’s now passed out against mine. I stroke her soft hair, sharing the weight of her guilt. Our pasts may not be the same, but our scars are.

I understand so much about Birdie now. She’s spent her whole adult life paying for the death of her friend. It’s time she let that go. If she’ll let me, I’ll help her. For now, she needs rest.

Moving as carefully as possible, I stand again, making sure not to jostle Birdie awake, and walk down the hall looking for her bedroom. When I find it, I lay her down, covering her with the blanket draped on a nearby chair.

Birdie’s cheeks are blotchy and red from crying, and her body refuses to relax, even in sleep. Unable to resist, I brush the silky strands from her forehead, replacing them with my lips and murmuring against her skin. “Shhh Petit Oiseau. You’re okay.”

Straining against the desire to wrap myself around her, I step away, and Birdie whimpers in her sleep, a deep, mournful sound. Her distress crushes my heart.

I can’t leave her like this. Kicking off my shoes, I stretch out beside her on the queen-sized bed and pull her into my arms. She settles down again, and press my nose to her hair, breathing in her delicate scent.

God help me.

Birdie

It was just a dream. It had to be. I’m all alone in this bed.

Opening my eyes, I remember the worst parts and cringe. It wasn’t all a dream. Last night’s confession hadn’t been imagined. That actually happened. What went down after is the illusion. I wasn’t carried to bed by a sexy warrior who joined me, enveloping me with his hard body. That I had the best sleep of my adult life was a fluke brought about by sheer exhaustion.

Still, I can’t explain how I got into bed or why I’m still fully dressed. I’ve crawled into bed half-conscious before, but never without taking off my bra.

I roll over and blink a few times. The other side of the bed is mussed, and a familiar ball cap rests on the opposite nightstand. Holy shit! I wasn’t dreaming.

The dick clock on the wall shows it’s just past eight. I’ve slept late, even for a Saturday. I roll out of bed, straightening my bra that popped a tit during the night. In the bathroom, I use a face wipe to remove yesterday’s slept-in makeup, apologizing to my skin.

After brushing my teeth and putting my hair up, I walk out, not even bothering to change clothes. Bastien is gone. I should be relieved, but I’m not.

I’m barely out of my room when sounds from the kitchen inform me that Bastien never left. The sounds and smells of apples and bacon turn my disappointment into dread because now, I have to face him.

Bastien knows what I’ve never told another living soul. I don’t know how to move forward from that, how to look him in the eye. Part of me wants to delay the inevitable and return to my room for a shower. But what would that accomplish?

A shower and clean clothes won’t make this any easier. Just rip off the band-aid, Birdie.

Taking a fortifying breath, I walk down the hall to the kitchen to find Bash at the stove. He’s cooking, using groceries I didn’t have. Hearing me approach, he looks over his shoulder and says, “You have an interesting collection of dicks.”

I can’t bring myself to look him in the eye, so I stare at the floor and shrug my shoulders. “Sadie gave me most of them.”

Bastien turns back to the stove and says, “I took your keys and went out. You didn’t have much in the fridge for breakfast.”

“I don’t…” Shaking my head, I collapse onto one of the barstools and drop my head onto my hands. A moment later, Bastien is behind me, spinning the stool around. “You don’t what?”

Even though my elbows slide off the counter with the movement, I keep my hands over my face. Bastien takes hold of my wrists, forcing my hands down. Shame has my head turning to keep from looking into his eyes, but I finally answer his question. “I don’t understand why you’re still here.”

Bastien lets me go, returns to the stove, and plates the eggs he’d been scrambling. “You needed someone,” he answers simply.

“No, Bastien. I got someone killed. A kid. You should be running as far and as fast as you can, not cooking me breakfast.”

The fabric of Bastien’s T-shirt strains at the sudden flexing of his arms. His back expands with a slow, deep breath as if he’s trying to calm himself. Then Bastien turns around, carrying two plates and sets them down on the bar.

Propping both hands on the surface, he leans forward, sympathy, not disgust, riding his eyes. “I wish I could say something to ease the guilt, but words won’t fix this. As shitty as you feel, your friend knew sneaking out was a bad idea. She shouldn’t have had to pay for that mistake with her life, but that’s the bastard’s fault that hurt and killed her, not yours.”

I keep quiet, silently warring with myself over his words. I know what he says is true, but I don’t know if I’ll ever be okay with myself for what happened. When I haven’t responded several moments later, Bastien taps the counter and stands upright again. “Now, I hope you like chausson aux pommes.”

“Pardon?”

Bastien smiles for the first time ever, I think. The sight sets bats to flight in my middle, and Bastien turns for the oven, pulling out a pan of cute little pastries with leaf designs cut into the top. “Chausson aux pommes. French apple turnovers. They were my mom’s favorite after a bad… when we needed a pick-me-up. She taught me how to make them. I cheated and used pre-made puff pastry this time.”

I’m speechless. My brain just refuses to form a coherent thought. Bash serves up two of the turnovers on my plate and nudges me with the flipper. “You don’t have to figure out everything or even be okay right now, Birdie. Eat, and let’s go find this car.”

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