Page 48 of Loud Unspoken Memories

Except, I do care.

I run a hand down his strong arm, wondering what will happen in two minutes. Two hours. Two days.

The two-minute answer comes when he rolls to the side. A squishy, bubbling noise when he pulls out of me has my face reddening. I’m glad it’s dim in here so he can’t clearly see my level of embarrassment.

“Let me get you a tissue,” he says.

When he opens the drawer in the nightstand, his entire body stiffens, making me remember what lies inside.

Without turning back to me, he holds a few tissues out and goes to get up off the bed. He’s going to run again. Maybe quite literally.

I hastily pop over to his side and put my hands on his shoulders. “Don’t run away. Please. Just stay and sit with it for a while.”

He sighs. “Sit with what?”

“Whatever is going through your head.” I rub my hand along his back. “Dallas, please. It’s cold. Lay back down. We’ll just lie here and get warm. We don’t have to talk.”

I can hear him swallow. It’s loud and telling. It’s the only noise in the room other than the occasional crackle from the fire.

Feeling he’s going to bolt despite my pleas, I reach behind the bed and pull a book from the shelf. I open it and start reading aloud. It’s hard because it’s so dim in here. I tilt the book so light from the fire illuminates the pages.

He doesn’t move, which I take as a good sign. He’s not leaving. But he’s not exactly staying either. He appears to be debating what to do about me. Trying to decide if what we just did was a mistake. Or most likely, whether or not he should race out the door.

I move away, prop a pillow up, lean back, and pull the covers around me. I keep reading. The story grips me from the first page and I wonder if it’s one he’s read before.

On the third page, he grabs the battery-powered lantern on the nightstand, handing it to me. Then finally, he lies back, not right next to me, there is space between us, but not as much as if he’d left. It’s a tiny yet monumental step. I don’t acknowledge it for fear I’ll jinx it. I just keep reading.

I read for hours. My throat is dry, and my voice is hoarse, but I don’t stop. Because Dallas is sleeping. His chest is moving up and down slowly. His face is relaxed. He looks peaceful. And I keep reading because I get the idea this doesn’t happen often.

Bex trots over, lays his head on the bed, and stares at me. The poor guy is probably crossing his legs. I heard him drink his entire bowl of water an hour ago.

The last thing I want to do is stop reading and risk Dallas waking. But even less desirable than that is cleaning up dog mess. I put the book down and get out of bed as carefully as I can. Quietly, I gather up my clothes and visit the bathroom,hoping the flush from the toilet and the sound of running water doesn’t wake him.

I cringe when the front door creaks then look back at the bed, grateful to see Dallas not moving.

Outside, after Bex takes care of business, I spend a few minutes throwing a stick to him. Then I make Abe a new head, replacing the carrot and pebbles on his face, this time not decapitating him with the scarf I gently tie around his neck.

Snow is falling. I’m not sure it ever stopped.

At this point, I’m not sure I ever want it to.

Feeling a sudden pang of loneliness, I take Bex back inside, fully expecting Dallas to be either putting on hiking clothes or hiding out in the hobby room. But he’s exactly where I left him. He hasn’t moved one iota. His lips are slightly parted. A soft, sexy snore escapes him, and a wallop of desire warms me. I’m drawn to him like a moth to a flame. I walk over and gaze down at him. He’s beautiful.

I’ve never thought of men as beautiful. Butheis. Through all his burliness, protectiveness, and standoffishness, he’s beautiful, inside and out.

For a moment, I’m jealous. I’m jealous of the woman he loved so much, even in death, that he left his entire life behind.

Will anyone ever love me like that? It’s almost inconceivable.

I startle when his body shifts. But he doesn’t open his eyes. He’s still asleep, deeply asleep. Why? What changed?

The book rests on the edge of the bed, still opened to the page I stopped on. Could it be my voice? My chest tightens at the idea that listening to me read to him allowed him to relax enough to sleep. And sleep peacefully.

I put two more logs on the fire, get a glass of water, then strip down, crawl into bed, and pick up right where I left off, vowing to read as long as the man next to me needs me to.

Chapter Twenty-two

Martina

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