Sweetest in the Gale - Olivia Dade Page 0,5
“The whim of a moment, quickly regretted.”
He leaned his butt against the counter and crossed his arms over his chest. Studied her.
The roses on her cheeks had turned blotchy, and they spread downward to the neckline of her t-shirt as she shuffled papers on her desk. “That said, it’s a nice color. Attractive, I suppose.”
Before he could inquire further, she went on the attack.
“Speaking of regrets, don’t think I’ve missed those caverns under your eyes, Griff,” she said loudly, pointing an accusing forefinger at his face. “Either get more sleep soon, or I’ll make sure you regr—”
To his shock, she cut herself off mid-threat.
The pinkness drained from her cheeks, and she was suddenly gray again, both arms limp at her sides. Her chin sank to her chest, and she was silent. One breath. Two. Five.
This time, he couldn’t stop himself.
“Candy…” He got to his feet and rounded her desk, laying a careful hand on her good arm. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?”
She didn’t move away from the contact, although her fingers twitched. “I’m fine. My arm is hurting a bit, that’s all.”
To hear her response, he’d had to angle his head. Not a good sign.
“Just…” She made eye contact again, brow creased. “You’ll make yourself sick, Griff. You need rest. I…”
He waited dumbstruck, dizzy at her proximity and the direct statement of concern. The meeting of intent stares. The kiss of flesh to flesh.
Her skin was softer than he’d imagined, giving and resilient beneath his fingertips.
Even if threatened with imminent destruction, he couldn’t have spoken then. Not to save his life, much less his weary heart.
She cleared her throat, the sound raw and painful.
Still gazing into his eyes, face fierce with a determination he didn’t understand, she finished her thought. “I worry about you.”
The open admission somehow disconnected him from his own worries. His shame.
His hand moved of its own volition, lifting from her arm to her cheek.
“You have…” He gathered the stray eyelash from the thin, fragile skin beneath her eye, careful not to smudge her glasses. “There. I got it.”
Her chest hitched.
Upon his upturned forefinger, he presented his offering. “Make a wish.”
She blinked up at him. Then she blew lightly, cool air rushing over his fingertip, and the eyelash took flight.
When she licked her pale lips, the sheen of moisture there drew his gaze like a lodestone. My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun; Coral is far more red than her lips’ red…
“I wished that you would get more sleep soon,” she told him.
Her chin had turned mulish. Challenging in the most familiar, welcome way.
“If you say your wish, it won’t come true.” It was a gentle scolding, spoken through a thick throat.
Those dark eyes unexpectedly flooded, and she jerked back from him. He didn’t beckon her closer again, didn’t reach out to gather her into his arms, but he wanted to. Heaven help him, he wanted to.
She took a deep, shuddering breath. “But if you don’t say it outright, directly, how can anyone know what you want? How you feel?”
Turning away, she gathered the last remaining poster from her desk, awkwardly removed the rubber band, and unrolled the laminated cylinder.
A portrait of Shakespeare, appropriately enough.
“Fair point,” he managed to say, aching for them both.
It was also a point he’d heard before. Across a dinner table, the words patient and loving. Whispered into his good ear in the hush of a dark bedroom. Shouted during one of their rare arguments, her graceful hands flung wide in emphasis.
No, not everyone enjoyed interpreting subtext. Not all the time.
He closed his eyes.
Metaphors and poetry are wonderful. But sometimes people need to hear the actual words, love. Marianne had cupped his face, stroking her thumbs over his cheeks, her hair tumbled on a shared pillow. Sometimes I need to hear the actual words. ‘I’m scared. I’m angry. I’m sad. I love you.’
Sometimes I can’t find direct words that encompass everything I want to say, everything I feel, he’d protested.
Consider them handholds. Her fingers were warm and tender on his skin. Easily grasped in hard moments. Easily understood. Easily supplemented with a few good metaphors or lines of poetry. I know your family didn’t talk about feelings, but you’re direct about everything else in your life, Griffin. You can do it. It’ll just take some practice.
She was almost always gentle, and she was always kind. To him, her family, the students she counseled, everyone.
I’ll try harder, he’d told her. I promise. I love you.
Her smile was as sincere, as open, as she