Page 13 of Courageous Hearts

I don’t know what I was expecting to find on Jameson’s face, but there’s no disgust. No anger or hint of upset. Only concern as those dark brown eyes of his look me over with the same soft expression he wore in the storage room yesterday. He lifts his hand, thumb and forefinger bracketing my chin ever so softly as he watches me.

“Yeah?” I finally breathe.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

My breath whooshes out of me. “Me? What about you?”

He tilts his head some before letting go of my chin and moving to sit up. I sit, too, facing him more fully and tugging my shirt—his shirt—straight.

“I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?” he says.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” I counter, too confused to form any sort of rational argument. And frankly, embarrassed. I don’t let my guard down easily. And yet, for whatever reason, I invited myself into Jameson’s life and did just that.

In the matter of one evening, he saw me crying, drunk, and desperate for touch. Jesus. Not a good look, Bo.

“You seemed upset last night,” Jameson says, the clear lines of worry on his face almost too much. Why does he care?

“I was,” I admit. “But…”

I completely lose my voice.

“But what?” he asks, patient as ever.

“I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable,” I finally say, face flaming. The idea that Jameson might have agreed to let me come home with him because he felt sorry for me is unbearable. But what’s the alternative?

He didn’t make a move. He almost certainly isn’t even interested in me like that. But we’re not close enough friends for sharing platonic snuggles to be a viable option.

He must’ve felt bad for me. Why else would he let me into his bed? The man has only known me for a day.

“I wasn’t uncomfortable, Bo. Why would you think that?” he asks.

Realizing honesty is the only way forward, I push past my embarrassment. “Jamie, have you ever had anyone in your bed who wasn’t a woman?”

His eyes widen momentarily before he blinks, swallowing roughly enough that I can track the movement. “No,” he admits softly.

“Right,” I say, tamping down my brief flare of disappointment. “I’m not a woman.”

“Of course not,” he agrees.

“So I imagine my forcin’ myself on you might have been a touch uncomfortable.”

His brows furrow before he shakes his head. “You didn’t force anything.” He opens his mouth again, but then he grunts. “Just a minute, okay? I’ll be right back.”

I nod, watching in confusion as he rolls away and hops out of bed. The sheet falls away as his feet hit the floor, and I realize, unlike me, he’s shirtless. His broad back disappears out of view, and I exhale roughly, dropping flat atop the mattress.

This is a mess. I’ll just have to apologize, let him know we can forget about it and move on. And then never—never—fall into Jameson Wright’s bed again.

Jameson returns less than a minute later with two bottled waters in hand. I sit up as he hands one my way. He settles cross-legged on the mattress before uncapping his bottle and swallowing the water down in one go. I fidget with my own bottle, too nervous to drink.

“Bo,” Jameson says, setting his empty water aside. “You didn’t force me to do anything. I had no issue with you coming back here, especially considering you were a bit wasted, and cuddling with anyone, woman or enby, is no hardship.”

He seems so sincere, and I can’t understand it. How is he so relaxed about this? “I stole your clothes,” I point out.

His lips twitch, something passing over his gaze I can’t quite decipher. “Yeah, you did.”

“I got undressed in front of you.”

“Nothing I haven’t seen before,” he says, even though his gaze skitters away. But then a little smirk appears on his face. “Although the lace was a surprise.”

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