Beard Necessities (Winston Brothers, #7)(14)

“You can go now,” he said, setting the bowl back on the tray and still not looking at me.

“Hmm.” I stood and peeked at it. The bowl was empty, but the plate with the rolls hadn’t been touched.

Picking up the first roll, which was still warm, I split it in half and buttered both sides liberally. Then I added the blackberry jam, returned the roll to the plate, and placed it in front of his face. Billy stared forward and through the roll I held in his line of sight, the muscle at his jaw ticking.

“I know you like blackberry jam,” I said, wiggling the plate. “And I know you love these rolls. It’s still warm. I just made them this morning.”

Billy closed his eyes, his chin lowering to his chest. I withdrew the plate as he brought his hand to his forehead, shoving his fingers into his hair.

“God, Claire. Please. Please just leave me alone.”

I tensed against a distinct and sharp spike just beneath my rib cage. He’d called me Claire. Again.

But I wouldn’t think about that now. He was sick, in need, and whether or not Billy still cared one stitch about me was irrelevant.

“Eat the roll,” I said mulishly, tapping into the fourteen-year-old version of myself who used to give him sass and smiles in equal measure.

I watched as Billy gathered a deep inhale, his eyes eventually opening and lifting to mine, and I stiffened. This. This is what I’d been expecting earlier. This was the look. The heated, piercing, ferocious collision of his gaze.

For a second I lost my wits, dazzled, my neck growing hot. But then, as we stared at each other, I detected a fracture in his signature steeliness. An off-note, as though it were a mask he’d put on rather than truly him.

I tilted my head to the side, studying this face I knew so well. “Ah-ah. I know what that look means.”

“What look?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, the tone sending a wave of goose bumps over and up my arms.

“You’re thinking you’ll intimidate me out of here, right?” I crossed my arms even while I held the plate. “Turn on the caveman charm? Maybe make me blush, something like that?”

“You have such a pretty blush.” His heated gaze traveled down to my breasts. “I’ve always wondered, do you blush everywhere?”

I did blush at that, but I also smiled and chuckled. He wasn’t shocking me or bullying me, not today. “Go on, William. Say something to embarrass me.” I snapped my fingers. “You could tell me how you bet I taste like strawberries,” I said, making sure I sounded bored.

His eyes darted back to mine, the forced heated licentiousness replaced with that disconcerting dullness. For once, I mourned the loss of that blasted stare; I wished it back, but only if it was really him and not him pretending.

Holding out the plate, I wiggled it again. “Eat it now, please.”

Lifting his hand like the action exhausted him, he plucked the roll off the plate and ate it in two bites. Then, still chewing, he sluggishly slid lower in the bed, rolling again to his side and giving me his back. I returned the plate to the tray reluctantly and decided not to push him about eating the other roll. Not yet. Maybe later. Along with that fettuccine alfredo Cletus had suggested.

Picking up the tray, I climbed the steps and placed it on the table outside the door. And then I walked back into the room, felt around the dark closet for a spare blanket, and covered him with it. But I left his shoes uncovered so I could untie the laces, which I proceeded to do.

“What are you doing?” Billy lifted his head slightly as soon as I touched his boot, and I could hear the frown in his voice.

“I’m taking off your shoes, you’ll sleep better.”

Finished unlacing the ties, I pulled off the right boot, then the left, setting both just underneath the bed. After covering his feet with the blanket, I returned to the rocking chair—again, allowing instinct to guide my movements—and sat. This time I didn’t rock, that squeak-click noise would make a manatee go rabid.

As soon as I was settled, I glanced at Billy and found him watching me over his shoulder.

“Are you going to sleep?” I asked softly, equally at ease and on edge. “I thought you were tired.”

He gave his head a subtle shake. “Why won’t you go?”

Before I could think better of the words, I said, “Because I want to stay and make sure no monsters come while you’re sleeping.”

Crap. I’d let my hopes get ahead of me. Here he was sick, and here I was bringing up controversial moments from our past before we’d had a proper talk. But something behind his gaze shifted, a spark of interest, of recollection, and my heart gave an answering flutter.

“What will you do . . .” He frowned. It looked thoughtful, like he was remembering something. He started again, “What will you do to the monsters, if they come?”

“You don’t want to know.” I quoted his words from those controversial stolen moments, so many years ago. “Sweet dreams.”

Billy’s eyes moved over me, still dull, and yet somehow not as detached as before. Eventually, he turned completely, his head falling to the pillow.

I breathed out relief and breathed in trepidation, needing to relax my hands and unbunch my shoulders. I hadn’t realized I was so tense, but I supposed it made sense. Every time we were alone, we would either fight or kiss; I regretted both the fighting and the kissing for so long. I didn’t want to fight anymore.