A Fine Mess (Over the Top #2) - Kelly Siskind Page 0,75

as we walk into the room, her slight body rigid with tension. If I could shield her with a protective force field, I would. Cloak her in love. Anything to ease her anxiety. Instead I wrap my arms around her waist.

The space isn’t as messy as I expected. There’s order to the chaos, in a way. But man, is it packed. The right wall is lined with two levels of clothing racks, hangers crammed together, like an overstocked thrift store. Below them are shoes. Lots of shoes. Boots and clogs and ballet flats, some piled on top of others. In the middle are a couch and coffee table covered with belts and purses. A shelving unit on the opposite wall is heaped with hats: sun hats, bowler hats, cowboy hats, cloche hats. Another beside it overflows with jewelry. Behind us paintings and artwork lean against a fireplace, stacks of canvas and wood frames.

My throat tightens. I knew this would be tough, that her issues were bigger than I could have imagined. But this is more. This is a woman who’s spent years hiding herself, never asking for help, and she’s placed her trust in me. The guy who dances to stamp out the weird.

Worried she can read my uncertainty, I say, “It’s not that bad. Nico’s apartment at university was way worse. It had a permanent hockey-gear, week-old-spaghetti stink. This place smells like flowers.”

“Lavender,” she mumbles. “And I bet he didn’t have enough clothing to dress half of Canada.”

“Considering one of his shirts would fit three people, I wouldn’t take that bet.” Her muffled laugh doesn’t hide her strain, but it’s the best I’ve got. “Is there more?”

She sighs. “I haven’t unpacked Jim’s things. The boxes are in the dining room, with other stuff. There’s more upstairs, too. Not as much, but…”

Her voice cracks, and it kills me. Fucking kills me. Cuts me down. Rips me in two. Last night, I made sure she knew she was still the sexiest woman I’ve ever known. I kissed her deeper and fucked her harder, not treating her like she’s fragile. Like she might break. She doesn’t need my pity; she needs to believe I still see her despite her issues. “This is a part of you, but it isn’t all of you. Without it, maybe you wouldn’t be such an amazing designer. Maybe these things are your inspiration. I wouldn’t change a thing about you, but I want you happy. Healthy.” I squeeze her tighter. “Let’s sit down.”

She nods, and her hat chafes my chin.

I sit on the floor, the only empty place to get comfortable, and she lowers herself opposite me. She wraps her arms around her knees and picks at the fraying threads. “You don’t have to do this. If you want to go, it’s fine. If you don’t want me to come to Vancouver, I’ll understand, and I’ll still get help.”

Fuck. Vancouver. What if moving exacerbates her issues? Makes her worse? Leaving this behind could help, but it could be a trigger, too. And I’d be responsible. If something happened, and she spiraled downhill, I’d never forgive myself. Avoiding the subject, I say, “I thought we were done with this whole you-telling-me-what-I-can-and-can’t-feel thing? I’m not going anywhere. Not because I feel obligated. Not because I feel bad for you. We were apart for three days, Lil. Three days. I don’t know about you, but it sucked for me. This”—I gesture around the room—“is a big deal. One we need to address. But I have no intention of walking away. Unless you want me to, but I’m pretty sure you think I’m awesome.”

She shakes her head, mock annoyance on her face. “Yes, I think you’re pretty awesome. And I missed you, too. A lot.”

“So let that be the last of that. No more questioning my feelings.”

Feelings that are knotting in my chest. This past week I had dinner with Finn and Meryl and spent the night picturing Lily and me living together—me forcing her to watch a samurai film, her dragging me to yoga. Before her all I wanted was fast cars, fast women, and a successful business. Now I want more. But I’m impulsive and selfish, traits that are tough to roll with on a good day. Add in her anxiety, and I could damage the one girl I’d do anything to protect.

Lashes lowered, she peers up at me and says, “Okay.”

But I’m not okay, and neither is she. The way she hugs her knees tighter, avoiding my eyes,