Thick Love (Thin Love, #2)(87)

He had a temper, something that seemed to rise often now when I asked him to talk to me about his shit. He’d held everything inside for so long that my prying had become like trying to bend steel. So yes, there had been arguments. There had been irritation, all of which was riled by the distinct lack of sex.

I was an idiot.

And I missed him. That night after bailing out of the Mustang, despite the vague I’m sorry texts, I decided to let him cool off. I didn’t call back. I didn’t return his text and I turned down Leann’s offer for a ride to CPU’s game at Texas A&M on Saturday because I also needed a cooling off period.

But that didn’t keep me from clinging to the extra pillow on my bed, the one that smelled like his cologne. It didn’t stop me from itching to call him just to hear his voice.

Ransom was a hard man to love, but I did it anyway.

That’s what I was thinking about—loving the things I shouldn’t, wanting the things that were probably bad for me, definitely not what I needed—when I heard that soft tap on my door.

I didn’t have to open it to know it was him. No one else would come to my door at two a.m. No one else would come to my door at any time really.

One jerk of the knob and I could let Ransom have it. Tell him he was impossible and stubborn and so was I and we were a disaster and we should probably just stay clear of each other for a while. That was the plan, at least.

Then I opened the door.

“Modi,” I muttered, already giving up my fight.

Those black eyes looked right through me, shining like he had a fever. He wore his fitted leather jacket over his CPU hoodie and a charcoal beanie. He looked delicious, but even that was secondary when I took in the split on the side of his thick bottom lip and the shadow bruising all around his left eye.

That didn’t look like a football injury and I doubted getting tackled would put that haunted, lost look in his eyes.

There were two sides of my brain: Logic and Love. Logic would have had me slamming the door in his face. We drove each other crazy. He couldn’t keep his hands off of me and I wouldn’t touch him for fear it wasn’t me he was thinking about when he kissed me. We were both stubborn *s sometimes. All of this Logic was excuse enough to shut that door.

Then there was Love. It reminded me that Ransom softened my frigid heart when he threatened my father, when he had been the only person outside of my grann to stick up for me against the old man. Love reminded me that if it hadn’t been for Ransom I would have never met Koa or Keira and Kona and I wouldn’t have them in life. Love told me that Ransom was still lost, still drifting but sometimes he let me pull him closer toward the shore. Love reminded me that things were possible.

Love was louder than Logic.

I opened my mouth, was going to tell him to come in, but then Ransom stepped over the threshold, immediately wrapping his big hands around my waist. He didn’t grip me like he was desperate, like he needed me just to breath. He didn’t explain who had bloodied his mouth or why.

Ransom just stood in front of me looking down, giving me that same, relieved expression he’d offer whenever he greeted me. It said “hello” and “thank you” all in one glance. Then he touched my face, traced my lips with his finger and rested against my forehead.

“Dance with me.”

It was all he needed to say. “I’m sorry” and “Forgive me” in three small words that didn’t require a response. There was no music, no slow beat that seeped inside us, moved us to sway against each other. There was Ransom and me and nothing else but that aching need to be together, to feel and touch, and silence the world around us.

He led, I followed.

His chest, those arms wrapped tightly around me, were safety, promises of protection and I leaned my face against his chest, rubbing my cheek against the fabric of his jacket. It was cold from the November chill. And while I touched him, moved against him, Ransom kissed the top of my head, held me like he needed to, like he would never be free of that need.

I knew I wouldn’t be either.

“Trent Marshall told me he remembered you from Summerland’s.” When I looked up at him, Ransom shrugged as though he didn’t care what his teammate thought. “He asked if I’d loan you out for parties.” I felt sick then, embarrassed that the * I’d seen that day in Ransom’s car was the same drunk idiot that had groped me after I danced for Ransom.

“Ransom…”

“I don’t care what he thinks,” he said, holding my chin up. “I bloodied his nose anyway so it’s over.” He kissed me, soft, quick and then pushed my head back to his chest, not stopping our dance once.

I said it before I lost my nerve. I said it knowing it would breach the quiet around us.

“I love you, Ransom.” And when he stilled, when I could hear the speed of his heart thumping against my ear, I looked up at him and smiled. Then I settled my cheek back on his chest so I didn’t pressure him into anything by looking into his eyes. “It won’t break me if you don’t love me back.” I snuggled into him.

It wouldn’t. I didn’t need that yet. I would one day, but not just yet. I’d once told him I didn’t know love, that I didn’t want to know it at all. That had changed with a kiss, with those dances and the haunted, broken look in his eyes. It had changed when he touched me, when he looked through me like no one ever had before.