The Wrong Right Man(46)
I take a step, wrap my hands around the rough-cut log banister, and watch Braxton in the kitchen with his back to me, wearing nothing but a pair of sweats with his phone to his ear as he turns eggs over in a pan. Another memory falls into place, making me want to turn around and go back into the room to hide. Last night, he told me he wanted to talk, and at the time, I wasn’t looking forward to that. But hung-over me is looking forward to that even less.
“Are you going to come down here and kiss me or are you going to stand up there staring out into space all day?” His words make me smile, and I focus on where he’s now standing with his hands on the counter, leaning into it and looking up at me with his muscular torso, making my mouth water.
“I wasn’t staring out into space. I was taking in the view,” I defend myself as I head across the landing and down the stairs to the first floor. He meets me when I reach the last step and pulls me into his arms, kissing me softly before leaning back to frown down at me.
“Why is your shirt wet?”
“I showered,” I state the obvious, touching my still sopping wet hair. “There were no towels in the bathroom.”
He drops his eyes to my chest, and I watch them grow dark. “I ran them through the wash the last time I was here. They’re in the dryer,” he says, brushing the back of his fingers across the front of my shirt over my nipple. I bite my lip to keep from moaning, and his eyes meet mine as I shiver. “As much as I enjoy you wet, let me get you something to put on.” He kisses me swiftly then moves around me to go up the stairs. “I made breakfast, and there’s coffee in the pot. Help yourself, and I’ll be back in a second.”
I cross my arms over my chest and walk toward the kitchen but make a beeline for the living room when I see the coffee table that is sitting in front of the couch. The wood looks similar to his table in the city, but in the open grooves and naturally pitted pieces, there is emerald-colored glass overlaid with lacquer, making the surface of the table look like glass. It’s beautiful, and if he made something like this for his mom, I can see why she would hang it on her wall.
I turn when I hear him come down the stairs and notice he has a towel in hand along with another shirt, this one gray. “This is beautiful.” I motion to the table, and he smiles softly. “If you ever want to quit your job, you could go into woodworking.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” He comes toward me then before I have time to prepare, he drops the towel to the couch and his hands are on my hips. “Arms up,” he orders, and I lift my hands up over my head as he drags the wet shirt up my body then drops it to the couch. Without a bit of shyness, I keep my hands up as he places the dry one over my head.
“Thanks,” I whisper, dropping my hands to my sides to rest over his on my hips.
“I wouldn’t want you to get sick because of me.”
“I don’t think that’s a thing,” I whisper, my heart beating hard as I try to understand how this guy can be so completely complicated. Hard and soft, sweet and hot, demanding and giving, everything I appreciate and despise in one gorgeous package.
“I think my mom would beg to differ.” He lets his hands fall from my waist then picks up the towel. “Hold up your hair.” I do, and he wraps the towel around my shoulders. Once it’s in place, I let my hair fall and then rest my hands against his warm chest. “Are you hungry or just hung-over?”
“A little of both.”
“Let’s put something in your stomach then get you some Tylenol.” He leans in to kiss my forehead then takes my hand from his chest and walks me to one of the barstools that form a half circle around the kitchen. I take a seat and then watch him as he makes me a plate piled high with eggs and pancakes he pulls out of the oven. He places my plate before me along with a set of silverware then sets out syrup and butter. “Coffee or tea?”
“Tea if you have it.” I stand to wrap the towel around my hair as he turns on an electric kettle on the counter before getting a packet of my favorite tea and a cup. “I feel like you’re always taking care of me.”
“You’re saying that like it’s a bad thing.”
Am I? Maybe. “I’m just not used to anyone but Jamie looking out for me.”
“It’s okay to trust someone besides your brother,” he says, filling the cup with steaming water and placing the teabag inside. “You can trust me.”
“I want to.” I hold his gaze so he knows I really do want that, maybe even more than he does.
He studies me, his eyes searching mine, then clears his throat. “We need to talk.”
My stomach drops, but I straighten in my chair, willing myself to stay strong and to be honest. “Okay.”
“When it comes to you, I don’t know what I’m doing.” The statement is one I’ve heard from him before, and I wonder where he’s going with this. “For a man like me, who’s in control of every aspect of his life, you have sent my life into a tailspin. I don’t know up from down. I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. I’m always worried about you, thinking about you, hoping you’re sleeping and eating, that you’re safe and happy.”
I want to smile, because I can see he’s annoyed with his own feelings and really doesn’t know how to deal with them. “So… you’re mad at me?”