Here Comes Trouble Page 0,64
comes next. Consider what is, not what might be. Okay? Promise me that much.”
“Dan—”
He sighed deeply. “Right. I’ll keep an eye, okay? I have to get back to work. Enjoy your…stay.”
“I already am.” Then he hung up before Dan could piss him off again, or worse stick his nose in, and his unwanted opinions, about Kirby.
Speaking of which, she walked, just then, into the kitchen. He had just clipped his phone back on his belt and was stirring the sauce again, but he stopped when he saw her face. “What’s wrong?” She was pale, well, paler than normal, and she looked…hollow. “Is everything okay?” Which was a stupid question, given everything clearly was not okay, but what else was he supposed to say? He didn’t know enough about her yet, or anything really, to know what to ask about.
It was right then, however, that he realized that he wanted to know. Wanted to be more involved.
He put the sauce spoon down and walked around the center cooking island to the kitchen table where she’d stopped. She was looking at him, but it was obvious her thoughts were somewhere else completely. “Kirby?”
It was like the little bubble they’d created had burst. First with Dan’s reality check and now with this, and suddenly he didn’t know what the boundaries were or what she’d accept from him. But what the hell, he thought, he’d saved her from falling out of a tree. He’d made love to her. He figured that gave him some options. At least ones he wouldn’t have to apologize for making assumptions about later.
So he did what he instinctively wanted to do, which was take her hand and tug her gently forward. She stutter-stepped into him, still looking poleaxed, and he put his arms around her and nudged her face up so she looked at him, but it was more like through him. “What’s wrong?”
Her expression shuttered then and she ducked her chin.
So he lifted a hand to her face, cupped her cheek, and tipped her face up again. “Maybe I can help. Or at least listen. Tell me what happened.”
“It’s…not your problem.” And then her eyes got glassy and he tensed, because that’s what guys did when women cried, or looked like they were going to. Except this wasn’t about him, or even them, like it might have been in the shower…so he stuck with it.
“It doesn’t have to be my problem to listen, does it?”
“I—you want a nice dinner. Not to hear about—about—” And then her bottom lip was quivering and he could see where this wasn’t so much about not wanting to tell him as about pride and integrity. And being made to cry in front of him about it, when she clearly wished she was being strong, was just making it worse.
So he did the only thing he could do. He kissed her.
And it took a moment, several actually, before she kissed him back. He shifted her arms up to his shoulders and pulled her more deeply into his arms. He let her guide the kiss at first, then slowly took over, taking it deeper, coaxing her to be more aggressive, until he was pretty damn sure they weren’t thinking about anything except the kiss and what it was doing to them, what it was making them want, making them feel.
When he finally lifted his head, his breathing wasn’t all that steady, and there was color in her cheeks now. He stroked her cheek with his thumb, pushed the hair from her forehead, and searched her eyes. “I get that living here, running this place alone, makes you a very self-reliant person. And someone like that probably has a hard time even sharing a problem they might be having. It’s hard to lean once, because there is a fear that the urge to lean would become stronger, and that would make you weaker, if you gave into it like that.”
Now her gaze sharpened on his, and he thought he’d hit right on it. But then she said, “You say that with utter confidence and more understanding than simply being a compassionate person would imply. So…I take it that you know whereof you speak.”
Ah. He was in such a hurry to help take that stark hollowness away, so used to his ability to see into others, to intuit more than the average person, that he hadn’t taken into consideration that he might leave himself vulnerable. He never showed his hand. That was more than a little unnerving.