Shameless(34)

I look over to find Kat huddled on the couch. She's trembling, whispering, "No, no!"

She’s still asleep.

I crouch down in front of her. “Kat. Wake up, babe. You’re dreaming.”

Her face contorts, and she cries out again. I can’t stand seeing her this way, so I grab her arms and try to shake her awake gently.

Her eyes fly open, and she gasps.

I don’t have time to apologize for waking her because she launches herself into my arms, and I land on my ass, but the trembling girl I’m holding doesn’t seem to care. Her heart is racing, and she's ice cold.

“Hey,” I whisper. “It’s okay.” I stroke her back, and she takes a shuddering breath. Damn. That must’ve been one hell of a dream.

Is this why she always looks exhausted? “Babe, how long has this been going on? Do you have a lot of nightmares?”

She nods against me.

“Since the accident,” she whimpers.

Damn.

Does she always scream in her sleep, and I’ve just never heard her?

I hold her until her breaths begin to even out. “You okay?”

She laughs, but it sounds hollow. “Trying to be.”

“C’mon. Let’s tuck you in bed.” I get up slowly, keeping my arm around her shoulders as we head to her room. I don’t bother turning on the light. Her window blinds are cracked open, and there’s enough moonlight to see her twin bed. Immediately, I see my breath.

“It’s f*cking freezing. You can’t sleep here.”

“It’s okay. I’m used to it.”

“But your hair is wet. You’re going to get sick.” We were already running around in the ice-cold rain tonight.

All of a sudden, I’m pissed. This girl busts her ass around here, and this is where she sleeps?

“Fuck this.” I grab her hand and drag her back to the office. “Sit.” Pointing at the couch, I don’t wait for her response as I jack up the thermostat as high as it’ll go and then duck into the bathroom for a hair dyer.

When I stalk back, she motions toward me. “Why are you so pissed off right now?”

“This. You freezing.” Growling, I plug the hair dryer into the wall. “I’m going to fix the f*cking temperature in your room, but for right now, let’s dry your hair. Turn around.” Her eyebrows lift, and we stare at each other. “Kat. I’m not joking. Turn around.”

She huffs out a breath. “?Seriament? I can do it myself you know. I’m not five.”

“Sure you can. But you didn’t. C’mon.” I flip on the dryer and put my hand up to my ear, shrugging like I can’t hear her protests. She rolls her eyes but finally turns so that her back is to me.

Reaching for her thick, damp locks, I thread my fingers through her dark hair as I wave the dryer. The scent of lavender and mandarin reach my nose. I know this because I read all the damn labels in the bathroom earlier tonight when I was trying not to get her naked.

I’ve never done this for a woman before. It’s surprisingly intimate. How close we are. How much I have to touch her.

The strands are silky soft and flutter around her shoulders as I weave my fingers in and out of her hair. Rhythmically, I repeat the motion. After a few minutes, she drops her head to the side.

I study her graceful neck and the long line of her shoulder, and I have the sudden urge to kiss her there. Is she ticklish. Would she giggle? Or would she moan and beg for more?

When the blood in my body starts heading south, I realize I have to stop this shit before it gets out of hand.

Ten minutes later, after I’ve recounted Red Sox stats instead of studying the soft curves of the woman in front of me, I click off the dryer, and she turns around. Her eyes are sleepy. “Thank you,” she whispers as she gets up.

“Nuh-uh. You’re not going anywhere.” Reaching into the closet, I grab a few more blankets and another pillow. “Lie down.” I motion toward the couch.

She looks at me, bewildered. “Where are you gonna sleep?”

“The floor.”

Her mouth drops open. “Brady, no. This is silly. I sleep in that room every night. I’ll be fine.”

“I insist.”

She sighs. “Let me sleep on the floor. You take the couch.”

“Kat, I realize we haven’t known each other that long, but what part of me do you think is * enough to let a woman sleep on the floor?”

She stares up at me while she nibbles her bottom lip. “How about we share it? It’s a pretty big couch. I could sleep on one end or in the lounger. Whichever you wanted.”

I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “Fine.”

She sits slowly and pulls up the blanket.

Settling back into the lounger does nothing to ease the nervous energy that pounded through me when I heard her scream. Jesus Christ. That scared the hell out of me. But when I think about how she leapt into my arms, I can’t deny how good she felt.

She keeps shifting, so I know she’s still awake. And I can’t f*cking sleep.

“Want to see what’s on TV?” I ask her in the darkness.

“Yeah, that’d be great.”

The Steve Carell marathon is still going strong, so we settle in with Anchorman. It’s barely audible, but neither of us seems to care.