He expected her to immediately shove away, but she stayed right where she was, tucked up against his chest, breathing softly. Had she fallen asleep? Not that he was complaining. He liked the feel of her in his arms, liked the sense of trust that she hadn’t tried to stuff all that emotion away when he’d showed up. At least, he hoped it was trust.
“I soaked your shirt.” Her soft voice was ragged.
“It’ll dry,” he murmured. “Do you want to talk about it?”
She shook her head and sat up, wiping at her face as she pulled away. “Why are you here?”
He itched to pull her back in but reached for the bag he’d brought instead. “I wanted to check on you. I came prepared to either celebrate”— He held up the Malbec—“or commiserate.” He pulled out the Moose Tracks ice cream, which had started to melt.
Her blue eyes glimmered, and for a moment he thought she might cry again. She swallowed. “That was really sweet. Thank you.”
“Which one would you like?”
Her lips twitched into a ghost of her usual smile. “Both?”
“That can be arranged.” Caleb shoved up from the sofa and strode into the kitchen.
Knowing she’d want a few minutes to pull herself together, he took his time, digging in the utensil drawer for the corkscrew and ice cream scoop. Water ran in the bathroom down the hall as he opened the wine and began to fill two bowls with ice cream. Snagging one of the trays she kept for parties, he loaded up the ice cream, along with an empty wine glass, a bottle of ibuprofen, and a tall glass of ice water. She needed to rehydrate some before she started in on that wine. By the time he carried the tray into the living room, she’d adiosed all the tissues and washed her face.
At the sight of the tray, she crossed her arms. “Two bowls?”
Studiously not looking at how those arms emphasized her breasts in that tank top, he settled his cargo on the coffee table and handed her the water and medication. “It’s my delivery fee. C’mon. Bottoms up.”
As she swallowed it down, he dropped back onto the sofa and grabbed the remote, turning on the TV and flipping to Netflix.
“What are you doing?”
“Starting Stranger Things. I know you’ve been wanting to watch it. Why, did you want to watch something else?”
“You don’t have to babysit me, Caleb.”
As the unmistakable theme music began to play, he set the remote aside and settled back with his ice cream. “Are you kidding? Do you know how long I’ve been waiting to discuss this with you? Fiona doesn’t know what she’s missing by refusing to watch it. This show is perfection in television.”
“You just surfaced from a forty-eight-hour shift.”
“It wasn’t a bad one.” She didn’t need to know about the overtime.
Emerson gave him the side eye. If she’d looked uncomfortable or like she really wanted him to go, he would’ve. But she needed to think about something else, and he was here to deliver—even if it wasn’t the kind of distraction he might’ve preferred. Besides, it would be fun revisiting the eighties with someone who’d lived through it. Probably best not to mention that, though.
Reaching for her bowl, he handed it to her. “Eat your ice cream, Aldridge.”
Folding herself onto the sofa beside him, she dug in, turning her attention to the screen. By the time the second episode started, she’d long since finished the ice cream and a glass of the wine, and he knew she was hooked. Without taking her eyes off the TV, she held out a hand, “Pass the wine.”
Smiling, Caleb topped off her glass and settled in for a solid binge session.
Chapter 4
A nagging throb in Emerson’s skull pulled her from the most delicious dream about…what? Even as she reached for it, the pieces slid away, leaving her with nothing but the hangover. This. This was why she didn’t indulge in crying jags. Or was it the wine? She’d lost count of how much she’d drunk. Surely Caleb hadn’t let her finish the whole bottle by herself. She shifted her head to press her face into the pillow, hoping to block out the light. It wasn’t morning until she said it was morning.
The pillow didn’t give. It was hard and warm and…moved.
Shock banished the last traces of sleep as she realized her pillow was a muscular chest. Her whole body was plastered against the full length of a big, tall someone who shouldn’t have fit on her sofa.
Oh dear God in heaven, she’d spent the night with Caleb on her couch.
What the hell was he still doing here?
Thinking hard, she unearthed a dim memory of finishing off the ice cream at two in the morning. She’d gotten cold, so he’d wrapped her up in a throw blanket and they’d…cuddled?
No. That couldn’t be right. The cuddling was probably part of the dream because it had been so damned long since she’d been held. Paisley would no doubt have plenty to say about how sad that was. Not that Emerson needed reminding. She was so very aware that there’d been no one for her since Fiona became a daily part of her life.
But…here they were. Her leg was thrown over his muscled thigh, her arm was draped over his waist, and the only thing keeping her from crashing to the floor were the strong arms tucking her close enough she could feel his every inhalation against her breasts.
He felt so damned good, all wrapped around her. Solid and warm and safe. Everything in her wanted to burrow in and hold on to this feeling that, for just a little while, she wasn’t standing alone.
Last night, she hadn’t been. For the first time in what seemed like forever, she’d had someone share her grief. It should’ve been weird. But he’d been there the night everything changed. He understood, as no one else could, how much it had gutted her. She’d never shown anyone else, not even Fiona. That child had enough on her plate navigating her own grief.
It definitely wasn’t grief she felt now as she breathed in Caleb’s scent—that curious, intimate smell of sleep-warmed skin. She wanted to bury her nose against his throat and wiggle even closer. Not that she did any such thing. Moving would wake him up and then this was going to get really weird. She just wanted to enjoy the closeness for a little while longer.
And, yeah, okay, she wanted to catalog the sensation of being up close and personal with a body like his because holy hell. She spent so much time trying not to think about his physique. But there was no ignoring it now. Not when she could feel the ridges of those abs beneath her palm and the evidence of morning just brushing her thigh. Her long starved libido sat up and said, Hello, Sailor!
She should not be having these thoughts about Caleb Romero. He was nearly a decade younger, for Pete’s sake. She was not a cradle robber. But it was hard to think about cradles when all the evidence pressed against her pointed to a very, very adult body.
That body tensed in a long stretch, accompanied by a rusty groan that had all kinds of inappropriate thoughts sparking in her brain. Thoughts that weren’t at all helped by the big hand that stroked down her waist, over her hip. Emerson couldn’t decide whether she wanted him to settle that palm over the curve of her ass or not. Would it be worse to know how that felt or be left to imagine it?
He blinked open dark, devastating eyes and smiled. “Morning.”