Page 40 of Tattered Edges

I peeked through my fingers and stared up at the exposed beams of his ceiling and the naked Edison bulbs that hung above my head. I was sure half the reason I was so attracted to Rory was because he remained a scowling, illusive mystery of a man—the other half being he was a spectacularly good-looking guy over forty who still had everything going for him.

That said, while his kind words the night before led me to believe he was warming up to me, I was convinced there was no interest on his part.

He had me all alone in his flat. He could have made a move, and yet he hadn’t. Not even once.

For the first time, I wondered if maybe it was my age that turned him off. I wasn’t sure exactly how old he was. I knew only that Graham was forty-two and the two had met in college and had been friends for more than twenty years. My guess was he was at least a decade older than me, which wasn’t a huge deal in my eyes.

If I was honest, it made him more appealing not less.

Older men were more established, wise, and experienced. I also assumed they had a better idea about what it was they wanted. I’d never dated anyone even five years older than me, but the older I got the more I understood myself—and Rory struck me as a man who knew and accepted himself at a very deep level.

Could the same be said of me from his perspective?

Maybe my short-lived pity party on the rooftop only exaggerated the years that spanned between us.

Immaturity wasn’t something I’d been accused of in ages. Getting sent away to boarding school helped me grow up faster than some, and I learned early on to stand on my own as best I could. But in the same breath, I would be the first to admit it took me a long time to figure out who I was. In some ways, I couldn’t deny I was still trying to figure it out—hence a transcontinental relocation. Though, just because I was still on a journey didn’t make me immature.

Weren’t most people, regardless of their age, ever growing, changing human beings?

I rubbed at my face and then buried my fingers in my hair with a sigh. It really didn’t matter one way or anotherwhyRory wasn’t interested in me. Fact of the matter was he wasn’t. Except, he didn’t want me to leave, which made us something close to friends, and that was worth more than nothing.

I laid awake with my thoughts for more than twenty minutes, forcing myself up when my bladder beckoned. As I made my way barefoot to the bathroom, I wondered how cold the bookstore had gotten over night. Much as I wanted to garner more foot traffic through the place, it wouldn’t do to welcome customers into an ice box. I would have to close up shop until the heat was working again.

I hoped that wouldn’t take more than a day or two.

I made a mental note to send Victoria a text when I returned to the couch. As soon as Rory was awake, I’d ask for his engineer contact and get repairs sorted as soon as possible. Where I would go while I waited on said repairs was unknown. The pub didn’t open until eleven, but I didn’t want to impose on Rory’s morning any more than I had to.

I was mulling over the idea of taking advantage of an unexpected free day and checking off another tourist destination when I emerged from the bathroom and bumped into the solid figure of a very warm, if not pale, shirtless man.

“Oof,” I muttered as I began to reel backwards.

Just as the sound escaped my lips, two hands grabbed me as if to steady me—one clasping hold of my waist while the other took hold of my opposite shoulder. While I didn’t feel as though I would topple over anymore, I wasn’t exactly steady on my feet, either.

His touch had quite the jarring effect.

“Boys a dear. Sorry,” he grumbled.

I looked up, and then up some more, inadvertently enjoying the view as my eyes traveled over what was likely ten inches between my eyes and his when we were standing this close. It was impossible to ignore the warmth of his touch as it seeped through my sweater. I couldn’t say whether it was his proximity, his hands, or his drowsy blue gaze aimed down at me—but whatever it was, my heart rate had picked up speed as a result.

“Didn’t expect you to open the door. Was going to knock to see if you wanted a shower. I’ll grab you a towel if you do.”

My stomach clenched in anxious excitement, my brain doing that thing where it morphed his words into something I was sure he didn’t mean.

He wasn’tinvitingme to join him in the shower. He was merely presenting me with the option to bathe—me, the woman without hot water of my own. Alone.

Still, for a span of the blink of an eye, my imagination took me there, and it was rapturous.

“Um,” I started to say.

His hands fell away from me then, and he took a step back, the look in his eyes still sleepy but deliberate. He was waiting for an answer while I was mourning the loss of his touch.

“A shower would be great. Yeah,” I managed to spit out.

He nodded then disappeared into his bedroom before returning with an unfolded towel.

“It’s clean, I swear. Just haven’t gotten around to folding laundry.”

“I trust you. Thanks,” I replied, accepting his offering.

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