Page 13 of Edge of Ruin
“Where are you going to sleep?” he asked.
I opened and closed her mouth. “Wha—what?” I forced out.
“There’s no bed here. Where are you going to sleep?”
“Ah,” I murmured, blushing.
There was a fleeting hint of a smile in his eyes. “I wasn’t suggesting my own bed.”
“I didn’t think you were,” I lied, my blush deepening. “I’m sleeping in my sleeping bag. It was hooked to my backpack. See?”
“Just a sleeping bag? On the bare floor?” He sounded shocked.
“I’m used to roughing it.”
He frowned, ruffling Edna’s ears. “No one sleeps on a bare floor in my place,” he said. “I don’t care what you’re used to.”
“Well, I appreciate the sentiment, but strictly speaking, it’s not your place. I’ll be paying rent. Which means it’s my place. You’re not obligated to treat me like a guest.”
He turned and stalked out the door, disappearing into the dense darkness. I shut the door behind him, exhaling a deep sigh of relief.
My battle tension dissipated, leaving me exhausted. I opened the sliding doors and let the fragrant night air into the room. Then I put away my groceries in the big, clean kitchen. That bright, clean, empty fridge just soothed my soul. So much space for everything. It felt strange, after the van, and my sisters’ microscopic New York apartments. Their wretched little half-refrigerators.
Though Fate had decreed that both of their new boyfriends have absolute top-shelf, chef’s kiss kitchens. That random little detail made me obscurely happy.
Then I lit one of my scented candles and some sandalwood incense, turned out the overhead light, and sat down cross-legged on my sleeping bag. The graceful, empty room flickering with candlelight soothed me. It felt strange and lovely, to have the door open to the night. To let my senses open and soften, to listen to frogs and insects singing their sweet night songs. I’d been so paranoid and wound up tight these last few weeks. But here, oddly, I felt almost safe.
From Snake Eyes and Haupt, anyway. If not from my own sex-starved stupidity.
A sense of his presence jolted my nerves into a state of alert. I jumped to my feet as he pushed open the mosquito screen with his boot and stepped through the sliding glass doors. He carried a rolled-up futon without apparent effort, a feather pillow wedged beneath his muscular arm.
“Knock next time,” I said sharply. “I’d appreciate it.”
He gazed over the futon, looking aggrieved. “Of course I would, under normal circumstances,” he said. “My hands were full.” He unfolded it onto the floor, tossed the pillow on top.
“For the record,” I persisted, “in the future, I prefer that you not barge in on me like that. Whether your hands are full or not.”
The condescending, dismissive gesture he made with his shoulders made me tense. “You’re not taking me seriously,” I said tightly. “It’s bugging me. Do we understand each other?”
“Yes, absolutely. Don’t worry, I heard you.” His eyes swept the room until they found my sleeping bag. “Will that keep you warm enough?”
“It always has before,” I assured him. “The futon wasn’t necessary, but thanks, anyway. It’s very kind of you.”
“The incense smells good.” His eyes followed the thin stream of smoke that undulated sensuously from the tiny bronze censer.
“Yes, it does,” I agreed. “It’s my favorite scent.”
A heavy silence fell. “Ah ... thanks for the futon,” I said again. “Very kind of you.”
I had intended the words to be a dismissal, but my voice emerged so husky and low and tentative, the phrase sounded almost inviting.
I tried to think of something else to say, but after a couple minutes of strugging, I abandoned the effort. I was too damned tired. It felt false. And this guy wasn’t interested in social chatter anyhow. Nor did he seem to be made uncomfortable by silence. He just stood there like a mountain in my bedroom. As dense as granite. An unidentifiable emotion burned from his shadowed eyes. He wasn’t leaving this place until he was damned good and ready.
So I just stood there and quietly bore the weight of the silence in the flickering dimness, until it became something more than silence. It was anticipation, taut and aching with things that longed to be said. A breeze wafted through the door and put out a candle, casting the room into deeper shadow.
I took matches from my pocket and turned to relight it … then froze, realizing that he was right behind me.
“Excuse me. Didn’t mean to startle you. I was just looking at this.” He gestured at my back with his fingertip, indicating my sun tattoo without touching me. “I caught a glimpse of it while you were paying for your dinner, but I couldn’t tell what it was under all your hair.” He studied the small circle with radiating lines. “A sun,” he said. “Does it have some special meaning? Like the flower?”
