Lizzie Blake's Best Mistake (A Brush with Love, #2)(49)
But now the rejection felt more acute. She’d never had her body rejected before. Sex was something satisfying she could offer people, and his rational reasoning for them not doing it still upset her balance. Hurt her feelings.
She took the stairs up to their place, and, with a deep breath, opened the door.
And darted for the bathroom like the embarrassed little chickenshit she was. She decided to wash her sweat off first before talking to Rake.
Lizzie rinsed off quickly, her muscles still restless and itching for stimulation, even after her run. She was glad some of the worst parts of the first trimester were behind her, her projectile vomiting seemed to only happen once a week or so, and the overwhelming tiredness had slowly subsided, but it also meant her body and mind needed more of the usual constant stimulation—like she would literally die if she had to be still and alone with her thoughts for too long.
She finished up her shower then stepped out, wrapping a towel around herself. The washer and dryer were housed in the bathroom closet, and she slid open the door. She’d moved a metric ton of dirty laundry to their new home, and she’d thrown it in for a wash first thing on moving day like a productive little hummingbird. But now she cursed herself and her minute-long spell of productivity as she remembered she never transferred it to the dryer.
Feeling frustrated at all the day’s shortcomings, she opened the washer’s lid, bracing herself for the all-too-familiar smell of moldy, forgotten clothes.
She was surprised to find it empty.
Maybe she hadn’t forgotten? She checked the dryer, but that was empty too. Her eyes fell on a tiny shelved cart, pushed into the shadowed corner. She flicked on the closet lights, and there were her clothes, crisp and folded like they belonged in a department store. She looked at the neat stacks, noticing the similar ones of Rake’s clothes on the shelf below.
She’d never seen her things so organized, shirts and pants in separate piles, arranged in a color gradient from light to dark. Looking closer, she saw that Rake even folded his underwear. Tidy stacks of boxer briefs, lined up and wrinkle-free.
Something about seeing their things together, the image of Rake’s large hands folding her cheap, flimsy clothes, handling them with such care, plucked at her heart and tightened her throat. Staring at the fabric until her eyes blurred at the edges, she realized how little she knew about the man she was living with. They couldn’t be more different: She was an explosion, while he was an intricate code, sometimes free and flirty, more often guarded and confined.
It bothered Lizzie that she couldn’t pin down who he was, the essence of his personality, but she sensed a hurt buried deep down below that gorgeous golden skin.
Why did he not have someone to do things like this for already? Why did he agree to take on her tornado of chaos?
Lizzie straightened, grabbing some clothes off the cart and making sure not to disrupt the piles. She was being too emotional again. Probably pregnancy hormones on top of her already excessive default of dramatics. It was the only explanation for all these pesky feelings she’d been having.
She threw on the clothes and wiped the raccoon smears of makeup from under her eyes, taking one last deep breath before opening the door. Rake was lying on the bed, his arm thrown over his eyes. As Lizzie moved closer, she heard the steady rumble of his sleeping breath, and it unsettled her that she already knew how he sounded when he slept. Two days ago, she didn’t know that about anyone.
She got on the other side of the bed, sitting cross-legged as she looked down on his sleeping form. Damn, he was beautiful. Objectively gorgeous.
His dirty-blond hair stuck up at odd angles against the pillow, the muscles and veins of his lean arms were finely made, and his lips were slightly parted as he slept. Lizzie placed her palm over his chest, feeling his heart knock against it, before she gently shook him awake.
He started like a bat out of hell, making Lizzie jerk back.
“What’s wrong?” he nearly yelled, jolting up.
“Sorry!” she said, throwing up her hands. “I was trying to wake you gently. Clearly, I didn’t.”
Rake blinked at her a few times, then scrubbed his fists against his eyes to rid them of sleep. He rubbed his large palm over his chest, right where she’d touched him. “You scared the shit out of me, Birdy.”
“I’m sorry,” she said again.
“No, it’s fine. I’m jet-lagged as hell and must’ve dozed off. I didn’t hear you come in.”
She looked into his eyes for a moment before staring at a spot on his shoulder, trying to formulate her words.
“How was your run?”
“Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria,” she said, at the same time he spoke, and he quirked his head to the side.
“Sorry, what?”
“A doctor once told me it’s called Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria. RSD. It’s a part of having ADHD. For some people, at least.”
“I’m sorry, I’m not sure I follow,” he said.
Lizzie took a deep breath, squeezing her eyes shut. She didn’t like talking about it. She didn’t like the way people made her a diagnosis. The way people always seemed to “understand” her behavior once they had a label for it. But she was also determined to be her own advocate, seeing endless online advice that articulating her experience was a form of radical self-care.
She opened her eyes and met the lovely blue-green of Rake’s.