He had to come in and hold me, like I was five years old.
I hate that he saw me like that. Weak and vulnerable.
On the other hand, the memory of the dream is still fresh in my mind. I was swimming, but not in the clean, bright rooftop pool. It was night, and I was swimming in a huge, dark lake. My hands looked ghostly white in the black water.
Something grabbed me from below and dragged me down. I could see the reflection of the moon up on the surface, growing tiny like a pinprick of light as I sank down, down. The water was freezing cold and pitch dark. The thing that had hold of me was monstrously large. It grabbed me with a dozen tentacles that squeezed all around my body—around my arms, legs, chest, and throat. It kept pulling me down no matter how hard I fought. And when I finally had to gasp for breath, cold water flooded my lungs.
I woke up tearing at the sheets that had wrapped tight around my body. I heard someone screaming and it took me way too long to realize it was me. I touched my face and felt that it actually was wet and cold. I’d been crying in my sleep.
I hope to god Raylan didn’t notice that, at least.
I’ll admit, it did feel good when he held me. I was ashamed of myself. And embarrassed that he ran in there half-naked, wearing just the boxer shorts he’d been sleeping in. But I couldn’t deny how warm his arms were, and his bare chest pressed against my face. He was like a huge blanket fresh out of the dryer. His warmth seemed to seep into my body, calming me down.
But now I have to face him. And I’m self-conscious all over again.
Not wanting to hurry that particular meeting, I take a shower first, and get dressed in a blouse, slacks, and a pair of loafers. Then there’s nothing else to do but go out to the kitchen.
Raylan is messing around at the stove. He’s got four different frypans going—one on each burner—and he’s wearing my apron over a fresh flannel shirt. His black hair looks damp and clean, like he already showered. I notice he didn’t bother to shave, though. His thick black stubble makes him look rakish. Especially when he smiles, showing those sharp teeth.
I don’t usually let men sleep over at my place. So I’m not used to somebody taking over my kitchen, using my frypans and my spatulas, spattering grease on the stovetop.
I don’t even know where the hell he got all this food. I certainly didn’t buy bacon and eggs and whatever he used to make french toast.
At least I can smell the rich scent of coffee. I pour myself a mug.
“Food’s almost ready,” Raylan says.
“I usually just have coffee,” I tell him.
“Coffee’s a drink. It ain’t breakfast.”
Raylan dishes up two massive plates full of crispy bacon, scrambled eggs, thick-cut french toast slathered in butter and syrup, and some kind of hash made of peppers and potato.
He sets a plate down in front of me, taking the seat opposite for himself.
“There’s no way I could eat all this,” I tell him.
“That’s brain food,” he says, taking a huge bite of french toast.
“That’s two thousand calories. That’s like your whole day on one plate.”
“Not my whole day. Takes a lot more than a plate of breakfast to feed this body, darlin.’ ” He grabs a piece of bacon and takes a big bite out of that, too.
I shake my head at him. “You’re gonna have a heart attack.”
“When have you ever seen a cowboy die of a heart attack?”
“Is that what you are? A cowboy?”
“You bet. Raised on a ranch in Tennessee.”
“What happened to it?”
“Oh, it’s still there.”
“Why’d you leave?”
“I got restless. Wanted to see what else was in the world. Besides . . .” Raylan grins. “I never said I was a good cowboy.”
I have to admit, the bacon on my plate does smell delicious. I pick up a slice and take a bite. It’s crispy and chewy, as fragrant and satisfying as the ribeye steak the night before. If I keep spending time with Raylan, I’m going to become a carnivore.
“See?” Raylan says. “Not bad, huh?”
I try a bite of the hash, too. The potatoes are crisp on the outside, fluffy in the middle. Well-seasoned with salt and pepper, and sweet sautéed red pepper and onion.
“You’re a good cook,” I admit.
“You like to cook?” Raylan asks me.
“No. I hate it, actually.”
“Why?”
“All that work just to make something that’s gone five minutes later.”
I don’t tell him the other reason—I hate doing anything that’s expected of me just because I’m a woman. Cooking, cleaning, childcare . . . I bristle against the idea that I should want to do those things. That I should let them consume me while men spend their hours on more “important” work.
My own mother was never a housewife. But she’s always deferred to my father. He’s the head of the family, and she’s his right hand. I don’t want to be anybody’s hand.
That’s why I’m never getting married. When Nessa married Mikolaj, I told her to take our grandmother’s ring. It was supposed to go to me, as the eldest daughter. But I don’t expect to ever use it.
I know nowadays people think they get married as equals. But when it comes down to it, someone’s career and someone’s goals have to come first. If one of you gets a job offer in New York and the other in LA, how do you pick where to go?
Selfishness is a recipe for divorce. I’m just going to skip all those middle steps and stay single all along. I like my own company. I like my own life.
Or at least I did before that diver came and fucked it all up.
“What?” Raylan says.
“What yourself?”
“You’re frowning,” he tells me.
“I was just . . . I’m sorry about waking you up,” I say, not meeting his eyes.
“Hey.” Raylan sets down his fork and puts his hand over mine. It’s heavy and warm. It reminds me how warm his arms were last night. His hand sends that same gentle calm through my body. “You don’t have to be tough all the time, you know. It’s okay if something like that affected you . . . ”
I pull my hand back, pushing my chair away from the table and standing up.
“I’m fine,” I tell him firmly. “Totally fine.”
Raylan keeps eating his food, obviously determined to finish the whole plate.
Actually, I think he’s eating every last bite just to annoy me. I’m standing there practically tapping my foot, wanting to get going.
“What’s your rush?” he says to me.
“I have a lot of work to do today.”
“It’s Saturday.”
“I’m in the middle of a huge project.”
“Think that’ll secure the partner position?” Raylan asks, forking up his last bite of hash.
I flush. “Yes, actually,” I say.
“Isn’t it kind of a given?” Raylan says. “Since your name’s already on the door?”
“No, it isn’t,” I snap. “But that’s exactly what people think. Which is why I have work harder and stay later than anyone. Because otherwise, no matter how smart I am, no matter how much business I bring in, everyone assumes that I got where I am because my last name is Griffin, and no other reason.”