Page 10 of One More Truth
And knowing that increases the guilt another two notches.
“How was work?” I ask. The domesticity of the question doesn’t skip my notice, what with me standing in his kitchen, the food I’ve prepared for tonight sitting on the counters.
Troy pulls me into his arms. “Good. Busy. I missed you.” He gives me a chaste kiss.
“You missed me because you had to answer your own phone calls?” I grin and tease him with a kiss of my own. “It’s a good thing I’m returning to work Monday.”
“Are you sure about that? Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to have another week off? So your throat is a hundred-percent better.”
I somehow manage not to roll my eyes. “It’s already better. It’s had three days to get better. And it has the weekend to recover too.” I put my hands on his shoulders. “I promise, I’m fine. I need to go back to work. I need to be doing something other than sitting around.”
His lips smooth into a line; his brow furrows. It’s his thinking expression. His I-don’t-exactly-agree-with-you face. “You have been doing something. You’ve been writing the articles about the PTSD survivors you interviewed and their families. That’s extremely important for the festival.”
I lean my hip against the counter. The coolness of the granite seeps through the cotton of my sundress. “I know. And that’s been great. I’ve loved writing them. But you hired me when your previous assistant quit and you needed someone to replace her. You can’t do everything, Troy. You’re already stretched thin with your regular work responsibilities, Wilderness Warriors, volunteering, and organizing the festival. You can’t do all of that and my job too.”
He grunts, and I have a feeling he believes the opposite. He thinks he’s Superman—invincible. But his injured shoulder proves he isn’t. It’s just as well he can’t help me with my renovations right now; otherwise, he’d push his body to the brink.
“If you’re not careful,” I warn, “you’ll be the one having a mental health crisis. I’m just trying to avoid that.” I kiss him again. “I care about you, Troy. A lot.” I give him another kiss—one that is less sweet than the other kisses but no more demanding.
Troy groans, and his lips gently coax me to let him in. Not that I need much coaxing. I deepen the kiss, my hands shifting from his shoulders to cup his face.
I vaguely hear the clicking of nails across the floor as the dogs give up on us and return to the living room. Troy and I keep kissing. Part of my brain nudges me to ask him what’s driving him to overextend himself, but the rest of my brain is enjoying the kiss too much to formulate the question.
“I saw your bike in the garage. Did Simone drive you to your house?” He strokes his thumb across my kiss-swollen lips.
“No, Bailey and I walked there. I wanted my bike for while you’re away this weekend.”
“I could have picked it up after work.”
I shrug, the movement a quick jerk. “I know, but I wanted the exercise. And I wanted to see if Violet had come home yet.”
“Any luck?”
I shake my head and move my hip away from the kitchen counter.
“Maybe ask Noah when he comes over.” Troy’s eyes search my face. “Are you still okay with him joining us tonight?”
I nod. “Avery and I talked about my fear of cops. She understood and told me I have nothing to worry about with Noah. She’s never fully trusted cops, but she trusts him.” Her distrust of them isn’t as strong as mine, but her words did give me some comfort when it comes to her boyfriend. And after my conversation with her when Violet was hiding in my house—the conversation about Avery’s father being an abusive husband—Avery’s words mean a lot to me.
Troy’s gaze searches my face once again, the furrow back on his brow. “Okay.” He doesn’t seem entirely convinced. The mist of doubt colors his tone.
“I can always step outside for a few minutes to catch my breath if it becomes too much.” I reach up and attempt to smooth away Troy’s frown. I don’t think I’ve met anyone who worries about me as much as he does. And that surprisingly turns my insides gooey.
I press my mouth to his.
The kiss isn’t meant to be a quick peck on the lips—nor does Troy take it as one. He welcomes my tongue into the depths of his mouth, and with my blood simmering, our conversation is swiftly forgotten.
Troy and I eventually come up for air, and he glances at the microwave clock. “Looks like we have time for a shower before everyone gets here. You in?” He flashes me a smile that turns my simmering blood to a full-out boil.
“I’m in,” I say, my still-slightly-rough voice now husky and low.
* * *
I’m puttingthe food on the coffee table when Avery and Noah arrive, their voices coming from the foyer.
Zara puts a plate of samosas next to the baked cheese dip. “How’re you doing?” she asks me. Her gaze cuts to the foyer, and I know what she’s really getting at.
“I’ll be fine. He’s not my late husband, and he’s not the cop who tried to strangle me or the one who assaulted me.”
