Page 61 of Reading Between the Lines
Diem paced the congested room, gnawing his fingernails to nubs and cracking his knuckles randomly as he snuck glances in my direction. For once, I didn’t think his distress had anything to do with frills, pink paint, potpourri, or ticking clocks.
Upon returning to the B&B after the incident with the dog in the woods, Diem deposited me in the bathroom and ordered me to take a long, hot shower. He’d refused to join me no matter how much I whined and begged, and I’d cranked neediness up to a solid level ten since the episode in the woods had left me feeling vulnerable.
Wrapped in a fluffier than fluffy, pinker than pink towel, sitting on the edge of the frillier than frilly bed with its rufflier than ruffly quilt, I watched Diem cross the room again. Back and forth. One side to the other. Twice, he kicked the blanket-wrapped mountain of clocks in the corner, telling it to shut the fuck up.
The room really was an attack on the senses.
Diem’s stress level had climbed into the danger zone. Anyone with eyes could see it. Something told me it had nothing to do with the strange man in the woods, his freak of a dog, or Atlas revealing that the Murder Club was a separate, more sinister entity than its tamer counterpart, the Whodunnits?
No, Diem’s tension was directly tied to my unexpected episode in the woods. Until an hour ago, I’d been the stable one in the relationship. I’d been the one talking Diem off a ledge, not the other way around. My anxiety attack—if that was what it was—had exposed Diem’s marshmallow insides. It had activated his own panic button. It had forced an emotion upon him that wasn’t anger or frustration, and Diem was not a fan of emotions.
Diem cared about me. A lot more than he realized if his reaction told me anything, and Diem wasn’t accustomed to vulnerability. He hated it.
So he paced.
And he processed.
And he paced some more.
And he processed some more.
Until I was dizzy and couldn’t take it another second. “D? You’re making me nauseous. Please stop and talk to me.” I patted the spot beside me on the bed. “Sit.”
He did not sit. Sitting would imply closeness, and Diem was in a headspace that required distance. He ceased pacing, however, and propped his hands on his hips. “Are you warmer?”
“Yes.”
“Calmer?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” He scanned the room. “Do you have a change of clothes?”
“I… think so.”
I got up and found my bag, digging inside and finding the last clean outfit I’d brought—trendy jeans and a knitted V-neck. I displayed them. “My jacket’s too wet and muddy to wear.”
“I know. Get dressed.”
I did. Diem watched my every move, but the concern creasing his forehead told me the attention wasn’t from lust or a desire to see me naked. The man seemed to need confirmation I was still in one piece.
“I have a hoodie,” he said as I tugged the V-neck over my head and refitted my glasses in place. He located it in his bag and handed it over.
I held it up, smirking. The garment was easily three sizes too big for my frame, but since the bear in Diem’s chest had no plans to hibernate any time soon and I didn’t want to aggravate it, I put the hoodie on.
Diem huffed and shook his head with an expression that told me it looked ridiculous. “You could do to gain a few pounds.”
“I wouldn’t object to a cheeseburger.” I offered a coy smile. “And fries. Maybe a chocolate shake. Apple pie?”
Some of the tension in Diem’s shoulders released, but the worry in his brow remained.
“I’m okay, D. Not a single scratch. What now? Should we pack up and relocate to a motel?”
Diem took in the room before scrubbing a hand over his face. “No. I called Delaney while you were in the shower. She’s thrilled we believe her and want to stick around to check things out. She booked us in this godforsaken room for a few more nights.”
“But the clocks.”
“I know.”
