Page 105 of Past the Broken Bridges

I put my hand on her shoulder as she haphazardly redresses. “Look at me.”

She doesn’t.

She pulls her shirt on, forgoing the bra.

“Sawyer,” I say, standing without an ounce of shame that I’m still naked.

I move the hair she’s using to block me away from her face. “There’s nothing wrong with that. I just wish you would have told me. I wouldn’t have been so rough with you. I would have…”

I would have done a lot more. Checked in more. Made sure she was okay. Shut out those voices better instead of letting them in. Anything.

Her eyes briefly lift to mine before they move back down to the floor. “It shouldn’t matter.”

But it does.

I find my boxer briefs and jeans and tug them on so she’ll feel more comfortable and then stand in front of her and tilt her chin up. “Are you okay?”

Her throat bobs, but she nods.

Sighing, I pull her in for a hug, wrapping my arms around her and tugging her closer into my body so her hands are trapped between us. For a moment, she’s tense. Then she releases a breath and relaxes into me, her palms moving to my hips and resting there.

Selfish.

The word echoes in my head, making my lips twitch. I push it away, as far away as I can, and focus on the girl in my arms. The one who probably feels how my heart is drumming wildly against her. How my fingers twitch as they rub her back. She does that to me, and she doesn’t even know it.

My hand finds the underside of her jaw, stroking the skin underneath. I frown when I feel something hard under the pad of my thumb, moving her hair away to get a better look at the lump. “Did you get stung?”

She stiffens. “No. It’s nothing.”

“I have ice—”

“Banks,” she says, putting her hand on mine and moving it away. “I promise it’s nothing to worry about.”

I find myself nodding, unsure whether I want to believe her. But I relent, not wanting to ruin the night. “You’re an anomaly,” I tell her, shaking my head.

“Why?”

“I don’t think you realize how different you are thanmost girls.” I pull her into the kitchen, grabbing the plates she made for us.

When she takes hers, she stares at the food. “I know better than you think I do,” she murmurs, toying with the chicken.

“That’s not a bad thing,” I reassure when I see the ghost of a frown lingering on her face.

It takes her a long moment to face me, as if she’s lost in thought or misinterpreting the compliment. I’ve known a lot of women, dated quite a few of them, and none of them compared to the one standing in my kitchen.

She follows me into the living room after we finish eating, sitting on the couch that she looks differently at now. “I don’t have to stay. I can go.”

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t usually part ways after hookups in the past, but the last place I want her to go is home, even if that’s only feet away. I want her to stay. I want her to be around. To pester me to do my homework. To argue with me about good music and TV. Her friendship fills a void that Dawson never could and keeps me away from the problems I have to face when I step outside this space.

“You don’t have to go either.”

We stare at one another, her lip back between her teeth. Biting. Hesitant.

Scared.

Her question is soft-spoken, with caution in every syllable. “Do you always ask the girls you sleep with to stay?”

“No.”

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