Fight From The Heart (Heart Collection #4) - L.B. Dunbar Page 0,9
Nothing penetrates me like it did when I was a kid.
Her shoulders fall, and I note the tub is almost full.
“Your forearms are your best feature,” she says, surprising me. I glance at my arms, one covered in tattoos, the other clean. “You’re strong, but you’re also gentle, even if you don’t want to admit it. You have serious arm porn.”
“Arm porn?” I choke out when I peer over at her. Her gaze leaps to my eyes.
“And your eyes. They’re this deep, rich dark color like the sky at midnight, and when you laugh, pinpricks dance in them like shining stars.”
I . . . what?
“They also look like they hold a great secret. Like something is locked behind the dungeon door, and I’ve often wondered what’s beyond them besides the creativity of your stories.”
Holy . . . nope. Not going there. There is no way Pam can ever know my secrets. The horrors in my memories. The scenes that torture me.
“That sounds a bit too romantic,” I mock, my voice rougher than necessary.
“Well, I’m not a poet.” Pam sits straighter, her fingers curling at the hem of my tee which she’s already tugged over her thighs. She knows I despise romance novels. Give me blood and guts, strange creatures and gore, and hate, anger, and demons and I’m all in.
When I don’t say anything else in response, Pam speaks again. “Never mind.” Crestfallen, she slumps her shoulders, and I sense I’ve hurt her feelings. She couldn’t mean any of it, though. Does she think the darkness is beautiful? Has she actually noticed my eyes that in-depth? Does she really see me as trapped inside myself?
One can only hope, but hope is also a romantic notion, and something I don’t subscribe to. I learned early on it’s dangerous to hope. You’ll be disappointed every time.
“Bath’s ready,” I mutter, stepping toward the door, needing to distance myself from her and the burning sensation of hope in my chest.
+ + +
Setting a clean T-shirt and the smallest pair of sweats I can find outside the bathroom door, I leave Pam alone. I’d love to ask her if she needs anything else. Me in the tub with her. Someone to dry off her body. A person to have sex with against the sink. But I decide against all those things, trying to wrap my head around what she said about me.
Is she attracted to my arms and my eyes? She hadn’t actually said that, just admitted that both body parts were attractive. And I’m being ridiculous. I have other things to do than analyze Pam’s comments.
Returning to my office, I read back what I wrote this morning. Time passes slowly, and I consider checking on Pam for the hundredth time. Suddenly, I hear a clatter from the other side of the house.
After quickly standing, I pace to the bottom of the staircase, which is right outside my office.
“Lilac,” I call out, thinking she’s still upstairs. When silence follows, I conclude the noise, whatever it was, was nothing. Turning back for my office, I hear another clattering sound coming from the kitchen, and I race across the great room, through the swinging door to the state-of-the-art kitchen, and stop short. Pam isn’t wrong. I don’t cook in here despite the top-of-the-line appliances.
A pot sits on the stove, and an unopened can of soup rests on the counter. Rounding the large island centering the cabinets, I discover Pam curled up on the floor. Her back leans against the cabinets while her knees are drawn up to her chest, and her head rests on her knees.
“Lilac,” I cry, squatting down next to her. She slowly lifts her head to look at me.
“The bath took all my energy. I should eat, but I can’t even open the can of soup.” Her voice trembles as if she might cry, and I swear if she does, I’m a goner. Despite the endless tears and drama of Mandi over the years, to see my strong Lilac fall apart would break me.
“Okay, angel,” I say, scooting forward for her and scooping her up again. “I’ll make the soup. Let’s get you back in bed.”
“I don’t think I can sleep,” she mutters, curling into me for the first time out of the three that I’ve carried her. Her arms wrap tightly around my neck, keeping her securely against my body. The sensation of her holding onto me does something funny to my insides, and my heart hammers at my ribs.