“So they had a problem with you not being equal, or whatever the hell it was?”
Among other things, she thought, though she wasn’t about to get into everything she’d overheard in that bathroom stall before she’d opened the door and watched Audrey’s friends go pale.
She’d said more than enough already.
“Seems so,” came her embarrassed agreement.
Quick, assessing, his glance swept her face. As if looking for where the problem might lie, apparently finding nothing in what he knew of her, utter certainty entered the low tones of his voice.
“Then this is their loss. Not yours.” Lifting his hand as she lowered her head, he caught her chin with one finger, tipped her head back up. “And for what it’s worth, everything you’ve said stays right here.” He brushed the back of his finger along the curve of her cheek, only to catch himself and still the motion scant seconds later. Drawing back, he settled both hands on his hips. “All of it.”
At the gentleness in his touch, her shoulders had risen with her indrawn breath. They now fell with a soft “Thank you” that had as much to do with his unexpected defense of her as his assurance that her secrets were safe with him.
She couldn’t deny how good his support felt. She was also rather horrified by how badly she wished he would stop looking at her as if he wanted to touch her again, and just do it. She felt terrible for her child. Totally powerless to give him the family he’d once had, imperfect as parts of it had been. Knowing what she knew now, she didn’t want him around the Linfields anyway. Yet what made her ache the most just then was what Erik had so inadvertently done.
Simply by touching her, he’d reminded her again of how long it had been since she’d been held. There had been brief hugs at Curt’s funeral, many of them awkward, most of them part of the blur that awful time had become. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt any measure of comfort from a man’s touch. She couldn’t even remember the last time she’d been in Curt’s arms. Or the last time they’d made love. She could easily recall the last kiss Curt had given her, though. She’d played it over a thousand times in her head. As rushed and preoccupied with work as he’d been in the mornings, it had been little more than his customary peck on her cheek on his way out the door.
After what she’d overheard, she couldn’t think of that kiss without wondering if it hadn’t been tolerance more than preoccupation underlying those absentminded goodbyes. But the awful possibility that the man she’d adored had merely endured living with her had existed since the day she’d buried him.
She shoved back the memories, fought the threatening ache.
“This is so not what you signed on for, Erik.” She shook her head again, tried to smile. “Thank you for listening. And for your help. And for the shelves. I still can’t believe you did that. Just tell me what I owe you.” She’d add it to what she owed him for the oil. “And thank you for having dinner with my son,” she hurried on, because that had been huge. “I’m sure you’ll think twice about sticking around for a meal in the future, but if you do happen to stay, I’ll make a point of not burdening you with my baggage.”
Despite her attempt to brush off the pain of what she’d shared, she looked as fragile to Erik as the thin silver chain resting below the hollow of her throat. He didn’t want her thanks or her money. What he wanted was more detail, not less. He especially wanted to know what she felt about the man whose privacy she still protected. He didn’t question why that mattered to him, or ask anything about Curt now. He was too busy hating how the man’s family had rejected her and the child she clearly cherished.
He’d never have guessed Tyler was not biologically her own. He’d just figured the boy had come by his fairer coloring from his father.
“What I signed on for was to make sure you can make a success of the business. I’ll do what I have to do to make that happen. I’m not taking your money, Rory. The shelves are just part of the service.”
He could see her protest forming even as he lifted his hand to her cheek once more. It was as apparent as her disquiet that she didn’t want to feel more obligated to him than she already did. Yet that protest died as he curved his fingers beneath her jaw and touched his thumb to the corner of her mouth.
“As for your son, he doesn’t need people in his life who don’t appreciate him.” Having made her go still, he drew his fingers toward her chin. “And you have too much else to do to waste any more energy on people who don’t appreciate you, either. Got that?”
She swallowed, gave him a small nod. Other than that questionable agreement she simply stood there, looking very much as if she was afraid to move for fear that he would.
He’d been physically aware of her since the moment they’d met. Knowing she wanted his touch made that awareness tug hard. She looked very much as if she needed to be held. Needed to be kissed. It was that stark vulnerability that drew him as his hand cupped the side of her face.
Lowering his head, he brushed his lips over the soft part of her mouth.
He heard her breath catch, felt it ease out, the warmth of it trembling against his cheek.
Rory wanted to believe it was just anxiety catching up with her as she slowly leaned toward him. Longing curled through her, a subtle yearning to simply sink into the incredible gentleness in his touch and let it take away the ache in her chest.
But that ache only grew.
So did the need for him to make it go away.
She leaned closer, drawn by that need, by him. As she did, his fingers eased through her hair, tipping her head and causing her to cling a little more tightly, to kiss him back a little more deeply.
It was kissing him back that turned the ache to something less definable. Shattering sweetness gave way to confusion. She craved the feel of this man’s arms, his strength, his self-possession. She just hated how needy she felt, and how badly she wanted him to make all the hurts and the doubts go away.
The pressure of her nails pressing into her palm suddenly registered. So did the realization that all that kept them from cutting into her flesh was the fabric wadded in her fists.
Beneath his own hands, Erik felt tension tightening the slender muscles of her entire enticing body. Before he could ease back himself, she’d released her death grip on his sweater and ducked her head.
Her quiet “I’m sorry” sounded like an apology for everything from the desperation he’d felt building in her to the way she’d bunched the front of his pullover. To remove any possible wrinkle she might have left, she hurriedly smoothed the fabric with the palm of her hand.
As if suddenly conscious of her palm on his chest, or possibly the heavy beat of his heart, she jerked back her hand and stepped away.
Erik moved with her, canceling that negligible distance. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind that he’d just added to the chaos of all she was struggling with. That hadn’t been his intent at all. Not totally sure what his intention had been, feeling a little conflicted himself, he lifted her face to his.
“Hey. It was just a kiss,” he murmured, attempting to absolve them both. Just a kiss that had done a number on his nervous system, he qualified, but her decidedly physical effect on him was beside the point. “No apology necessary. Okay?”
Unlike her unease, her nod was barely perceptible.
“I’ll call you in a couple of days.” Aware of how she barely met his eyes, he consciously lowered his hand. He shouldn’t be touching her at all. “Can you finish the inventory by Friday afternoon?”
As segues went, he knew his was positively graceless. All he wanted at the moment, though, was to get past the awkwardness that had her protectively crossing her arms as she pulled composure into place.
“I’ll