If Only You (Bergman Brothers, #6)(37)

In front of the mirror, I fuss with my hair more, adjust the collar of my shirt again. I check the line of my scruff that I shaved along my neck to keep it neat.

A jaunty whistle of “You’re So Vain” suddenly echoes in my bathroom, and I startle. Thank God I don’t still have the razor at my neck, because if I did, I’d have risked slitting my throat.

I spin around, heart pounding from surprise.

And then my heart’s pounding for an entirely different reason.

Ziggy stands framed in the doorway. Black strappy romper, legs for days, a pair of rainbow high-top Nikes. She wears colorful, dangly tasseled earrings that jingle softly when she walks closer.

Jesus Christ, she’s gorgeous.

“Have you heard of knocking?” The words leave me, hoarse and thin.

Ziggy stares at me, her cheeks turning progressively pinker as she bites her lip and shrugs. “Why knock when I know how to get in?”

I tear my gaze away, because I can’t take looking at her one more second. “A basic respect for private property. Come on. We’ll be late if we don’t leave soon.”

I brush by her, leaving her in my wake as I stroll across my bedroom to the dresser, gathering my wallet, the key for the Cayenne, which I’ve kept on me for her to use, since she seemed comfortable driving that last time.

Even after I’ve made sure I have everything I need, she’s quiet. Too quiet. Turning, I see her standing in my bathroom, staring at her reflection in the mirror, eyes wide.

Concerned, I walk her way, until I stop right behind her.

Our eyes meet in the mirror. A slow deep breath lifts her chest, like she’s trying to calm herself. She swallows thickly. Then I feel it…she’s trembling.

It’s like that moment at the diner, when I saw her white-knuckle the menu and realized something was very wrong. Except this is much worse. Now I know what scares her, what makes her breathing tight, makes her freeze up in fear.

It happens before I process it, my body stepping closer. My hands settle on her shoulders, and warmth seeps to my palms. I squeeze gently and feel her shoulders fall, tension seep out of her posture.

A rush of relief crests through me, knowing it helped. Already an addict, I go for my next fix, slide my palms down her arms, over warm, satin-soft skin, and squeeze her forearms, too. Her hands drop from fists to slack fingertips.

Another wave of relief knocks into me, seeing how it soothes her, reassuring me that I can keep going. Even if I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t. I don’t deserve to touch her, comfort her, offer her anything of me. But I am selfish and greedy, and I want this moment to know that even in all my undeserving, I can give her this.

Our gazes hold as I press my hands lower, until our palms run over each other’s and our fingers link. Her eyes fall shut. Her head lists back against my jaw.

I stare at her because it’s safe to while her eyes are closed, drinking in the tiniest details, the freckles dusting her nose, across her cheeks and throat, the soft strawberry tendrils of hair at her temples, curled around her ears. The dark auburn roots of her lashes, burnished to gold tips.

I have never been this close to something this unspeakably good. I have never wanted more to be worthy of it.

And I never will be. I wouldn’t even try, risking failure with someone like Ziggy, who, in just a week’s time, has shown me how deeply she feels, how deeply my disappointing her would hurt. And I would disappoint her.

I’m not capable of everything she deserves. But maybe I’m capable of a little…to a small extent. Maybe I could earn my place as her actual friend, someone lucky enough to exist in her orbit, without ever drawing too destructively close.

As her hands tighten their grip in mine and a soft smile lifts her mouth, I have the faint, desperate hope that this dream I’ve allowed myself could become real. That for once, I could have something a little good, be capable of a little good myself, too. Just for the chance to have a sliver of her.

“Thank you,” she whispers.

I squeeze her fingers back, then force myself to let them go. “Don’t thank me.”

Her eyes flutter open. She lifts her head from where it’s rested against mine and tips it in curiosity. “Why not?”

My fingertips find hers again, dancing against them—one last, swift indulgence. “I don’t want to be thanked, like I’ve done you some favor.”

She wrinkles her nose. “But you did. You helped me feel calmer.”

Freeing a piece of hair that’s caught beneath her romper’s strap, I avoid her eyes. “Just let me do those things, knowing that I want to, that I’ve done a lot of shitty things in my life, and the few good ones, well, they’re the least I can do, especially when they’re for you.”

Her confused expression deepens. “Seb—”

“Sigrid.” I clasp her hand, tugging her gently across my bedroom. I keep my back to the bed, doing everything I can to lock down my thoughts. I’m not going to think about how it felt when we tumbled onto her bed the night we stopped at her place and I felt her, warm and snug against me. I’m not going to indulge the fantasy of tumbling with her down to my bed, pulling her over me until she falls, hips heavy on mine, long, thick hair an auburn tapestry shutting out the world, until it’s only her hands and mine, mouths meeting, tongues touching, our bodies moving slow, then fast, aching and hungry.