Page 51 of Deadly Attraction
Chapter Eleven
Oh, this man. He was killing her.
Emma sat, heart thudding, as Mitch’s eyes darkened with desire.
With life.
He wanted to live. Because of her?
A part of her knew his grief was simply running its course. Most people went through the five stages of grief in a year. For someone like Mitch, a man who’d lost his twin brother and blamed himself for it, five years wasn’t outside of the normal parameters.
He needed help in a big way—in regards to his guilt, to his relationship with his mother, and probably to other things she still hadn’t learned about. More help than she could ever give him, especially now since she was falling for him.
Slightly flustered, she felt paralyzed by his eyes. By the fact she was sitting on the floor, pinned down close to him by the dogs, and wanting to do nothing more than crawl into his lap and wipe that desperate misery off his face.
“I don’t know what it is about you,” he said. “You make me want to talk about things I haven’t spoken of to anyone else, ever.”
The sign of a good therapist. “Moving through grief is a very individualized process. Time works wonders, and the brain has lots of coping mechanisms. Not all of them are healthy, but…”
What was she doing? The mechanics of the brain and psychological babble weren’t exactly seductive topics.
And yet, the sexy man in front of her had lust in his eyes and was grinning at her.
“I’m sorry,” she said on an exhale. “Sometimes it’s difficult for me to turn off the psychologist in me.”
“Don’t apologize. You’re good at it.”
She fiddled with Pepper’s ear, feeling the urge to grin back at him. “Very few people find the brain and its inner workings as exciting as I do.”
“You understand me because you’ve been through something similar, haven’t you?”
He knew she had from their previous conversations, yet he was opening the door, inviting her to trust him like he was trusting her.
The sun shone through the picture window, cutting a long rectangle across the floor. Dust motes danced in the sunbeams.
Sitting on the floor made it easier, somehow. As if by lowering herself to the ground with the dogs and the dust, her secrets were both grounded and light as a feather. The heart space where her pain nestled had knocked her down to these very floor boards before. How many nights had she lain in here and cried herself to sleep, the dogs licking at her tears and cuddling their big, warm bodies up to hers?
“It was a child,” she murmured through the old familiar ache. “I lost a baby.”
“Emma.” Her name came out quiet, a holy thing. “I’m so sorry.”
The sympathy in his voice made tears well in her eyes. “I was engaged once. He insisted I quit my job, that it was bad for the baby growing inside me.”
Mitch’s hand crept forward and gently took hers. “What happened?”
A single tear slid down her cheek. “I didn’t listen.” She dashed the wetness away. “I miscarried after one of Chris Goodsman’s fans broke into our home and tried to kill me.”
Mitch’s grip tightened, a protective anger radiating from him. He remained quiet, giving her space to talk more if she wanted to. Quiet, if forceful support, if she didn’t.
I could love him for that.
The thought hit her with the impact of a brick. She started to draw away, wondering what was wrong with her.
Mitch stayed her hand, keeping her close. His grip didn’t tighten farther, he simply held her there, unmoving. “No wonder you understand how I feel. You’re carrying the same kind of emotional shit.”
Emotional shit, yes, indeed. She would always be bogged down with the guilt sticking to her legs like quicksand.
“I guess so.” Staring into his solemn eyes, Emma snaked her free hand out to touch his heart through his shirt. “I have an imaginary ice pick buried right here. You?”
