Page 42 of Those Two Words

It takes every modicum of self-control not to grind my hips into him. But when his thumb runs across my nipple, those quiet whimpers turn to a loud moan.

“Shit,” he curses, no longer asleep. His hand whips out from under the T-shirt.

Biting back my protest at the loss of his touch, I risk a glance over my shoulder. He’s not guilty or outraged like I was expecting. His pupils are blown wide, hair messy and wild, and his eyes burn with desire, I worry a wildfire might take light in them.

I go to open my mouth, but what do I even say? Sorry for rubbing up against you like a bear needing a back scratch from a tree.

“I, umm, Jesus, Jo. I’m so sorry. I think I forgot where I was for a second.” He lets out a deep breath. “That wasn’t…staying here…that wasn’t my intention. I swear.”

My mood instantly shifts when I see the guilt morph his face. He’s worried he’s taken advantage of me, which is not the case.

“Hey, it’s fine. It takes two to tango, right?” I wince as the words leave my mouth in that dumb British accent, hinting at my unease. It’s not that being close to him makes me uncomfortable, far from it, but we clearly have no clue how to navigate our way around each other. We’re constantly fumbling around in the dark and bouncing off one another.

He huffs out a little laugh and scratches the dark stubble on his jaw. It’s such a contrast to his usual clean-shaven look, and I can’t help but wonder how it would feel against my…

Nope! Not going there.

“How are you feeling?” he asks.

“I’m pretty tired, but it looks like I slept for…” I squint at the clock hanging on the wall. “Crap! Ten hours! Patrick, you should be with Lottie or doing something better with your day. Oh my god, I’m due at the restaurant soon.” I shoot up in bed, untangling myself from the comforter when his fingers curl around my wrist, halting my escape.

“She’s with my mom. Making sure you’re okay is my top priority right now. Jules has got your shift covered too.” His fingers begin stroking my wrist—just like that evening in his truck—as he looks at me, brows furrowed. “You scared me last night, but please don’t tell me you’re okay because it’s easier.”

Jesus. How does he know exactly what to say?

I’m so used to putting up a façade, worried about how my true feelings will impact others. No one has ever called me out on it before. “I’m tired but embarrassed more than anything. Thank you for everything, and I’m so so?—”

“Don’t you dare say you’re sorry,” he interrupts. His tone isn’t angry, but I hear the warning, like the idea of me apologizing is absurd. “You have nothing to apologize for or be embarrassed about. I’m just sorry I didn’t get to you sooner.”

This man. He would take on the burden that he didn’t help me sooner, as if he knew where and what I’m doing at all times. Like I’m his responsibility. Then a thought enters my mind. “How did you know I was there?”

He reaches behind him and waves his phone in the air. “I have an app linked to the security system. A notification came through early this morning saying it’d been turned off. That reminds me, your phone is downstairs.”

My phone. The whole reason I got myself into this mess. Though, I hardly expected to have my first panic attack in two years when searching for my missing phone. Anxiety loves to be unpredictable and unforgiving like that. I made a rookie error. I should have known better than to go somewhere that tends to trigger me without my meds, especially when I was already in such a low mood.

Patrick looks at me intensely, but he isn’t staring at me like I’m a delicate piece of porcelain ready to crack at the slightest knock. He’s trying to peel me back, layer by layer; to work out what’s different about me. Dropping my head to avoid his gaze, I run my fingers across the faded lettering of the T-shirt, secretly soaking up how much I love being in his clothes.

He ducks his head, and there’s no avoiding him now. Patrick takes my hand in his, caressing his thumb across my knuckles as he holds my eyes captive. “Don’t do that, love.” His voice is so tender, it makes my chest ache. “We all have our days, and while I’m sorry you had to go through that last night, I’m glad I was the one to find you. We can talk about what happened, or we can move on to something else?”

This. This is exactly the conversation I spent years avoiding. That self-conscious girl I’ve grown from shows her face. She was so ashamed and embarrassed about how she was feeling. But I’m not that same girl, and I trust the person in front of me. I thought he’d changed since I moved back to town, and in a way he has. But he’s the same seven-year-old boy who kissed me at midnight just to make me smile. And the teenage boy who raced through town to save my junior prom.

“Can I freshen up and have some coffee first, before I answer that?”

The corner of his mouth picks up and he nods, before leaning forward and placing a kiss to my forehead. “Iced coffee?”

That small brush of his lips leaves me speechless, and all I can do is nod in response.

“I’ll get right on that. We know how grumpy you get without your caffeine. There’s a spare toothbrush under the sink. Help yourself to anything else in there, I’ll use Lottie’s bathroom.”

He climbs off the bed and with the sweetest smile, saunters out of the room, while I sit there stunned from his words and actions.

A short while later, feeling less like a zombie after splashing some water on my face and brushing my teeth, I head to the bedroom to make the bed, but the sight of a Post-it note on the pillow I slept on last night catches my eye.

The last time he left me a note was also on a pillow in his bed. Specifically in the bed where we had slept together for the first time. Where I gave him my heart and he gave me his. The most memorable night of my life.

It was quickly followed by one of the worst few weeks of mine, and no doubt his.

The point of no return.

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