Her smile turned gentle. Resigned rather than regretful, he liked to think. She reached out and place her hand against his cheek. “I…I don’t want you to go anywhere.”
Thank Christ for that. Hoping to encourage her to pick up where they’d left off yesterday, he reminded her, “Last night, before you went to sleep, you mentioned you had something you wanted to ask me today. Ask me, Izzy. Ask me anything.”
Chapter Sixteen
Anything? A very tempting invitation delivered by a man on his knees, but even kneeling by the bed in a dark blue sweater and faded jeans, Trace was just too big, too dominant in size and appeal to confuse with a harmless temptation. Strangely, though, his reminder shook a little memory out of the general fog of last night. It rose to the surface of her mind like the message triangle floating to the window of a Magic 8-Ball. Except this message didn’t read, “Yes,” or “No,” or even, “Ask again later.” The message read, “Ask about shea.”
Into the phone, she said, “Key howled something kind of odd last night. Bridget told me to ask you about it.”
The playful quirk of Trace’s lips straightened. His eyes took on the sad, haunted cast she hadn’t seen in a while. Something in her chest grew tight as she waited for him to speak.
“He does that sometimes.”
“That’s exactly what Bridget said.” She hit disconnect on her phone and put it aside. Levering herself into a sitting position while keeping the blanket wrapped around her body, she went on. “Why does he howl for shea?”
Trace put his phone down as well but remained kneeling by the bed. “He howls for his owner. My brother, Shay Shanahan. Being a dog, he can only manage the first name.”
The tightness in her chest intensified. “Where is Shay?”
Trace dropped his forehead to the mattress and took a deep breath. “He’s dead. He passed away in November.”
“Oh, Trace. I’m so sorry.” People said time healed all wounds, but four months wasn’t a lot of healing time. Needing to offer comfort, not really knowing how, she smoothed a hand over his hair.
He caught her hand in his larger, rougher one, held onto it as if hers provided a source of strength as he lifted his head and gave her a weary smile that broke her heart. “Me too.”
Would it help to talk? So many questions flooded her mind.
First and foremost: How did he die? She thought back to their conversation about Captivity having no hospital, only a clinic. Had his brother fallen ill? Suffered an accident that required more medical attention than Captivity could provide?
More concerning, considering the past, no matter how tragic, couldn’t be changed, but the future certainly wasn’t etched in stone: Did his death have anything to do with your decision to sell your interest in the airfield?
Both those questions seemed too agonizing for the moment. She fumbled after something less fraught. “Was he older or younger?”
“Bridget’s age. They’re twins. Though he arrived first, and always insisted he was the middle child”—the corner of his mouth twitched—“but you’d never know it by his personality. Shay was not the peacekeeper. He was a fun-loving agitator, an attention-whore, and a massive pain in my ass half the time. He was good-looking and charming, which generally helped smooth over of the consequences of bone-deep impulsivity. He was unreliable, often irresponsible, and…” He broke off, looked at the wall, and took a shaky breath. “We loved him. Everyone loved him.”
Clasping his hand tight, she repeated, “I’m sorry,” and struggled with the inadequacy of the words. “I’ve never lost anyone close to me. I don’t know what to say.” Feeling that deficit keenly, she placed her other hand atop their joined hands. “Do you want to talk about this?”
He shook his head, then turned back to her with red-rimmed eyes and mustered up the sad smile. “Not really.”
“Okay.” Still bundled in the blanket, she eased into his arms. He caught her and held her close, buried his face in her hair. She held on, too, with her arms wrapped around his neck, and counted the slow, steady expansions of his chest as he breathed. When she reached thirty—one for each year of his life—she lifted her head to look at him. Concern for him and, okay, a tiny bit for her partnership prospects, prodded her to ask another question of him. “Can you tell me one last thing?”
“What’s that?”
“Well, let me start by reiterating that I don’t know a lot about dealing with a profound loss. I mean, I understand there are five stages of grief and other stuff the internet says, but I know experts recommend putting off any big life changes while grieving. Don’t move homes. Don’t change jobs. Don’t make any major financial decisions.” She leaned back and eyed him ironically. “Seems to me I’m here to facilitate a pretty major life change for you. Something that might involve all three no-no’s.”
“Something I’d been thinking about, on-and-off, for a while.”
That helped. Made things feel more stable, but still. “Can you promise me your decision to sell your interest in the airfield has nothing to do with your brother’s passing?”
Promise me you’re not doing something you’re going to regret when it comes time to ink the deal. Promise me my partnership chances aren’t staked on a sale that’s going to fall apart at the last minute when you suddenly realize you don’t want to compound one loss with another?
He cupped her face, looked her straight in the eyes, and gave her lips a soft, brief kiss. “Nothing. One has nothing to do with the other, except maybe to remind me life is short, and you shouldn’t put off the things you want to do until ‘someday.’ Do them now.”
Those serious eyes entranced her, like faceted sapphires, making it hard for her to follow every nuance of the conversation. “W-What do you want to do?”
He raked his fingers into her hair, held on, and kissed her again. Not softly. Not briefly. He dove into her, sank into her, pulled her under with him. And it was like drowning, tumultuous, and overwhelming and undeniably an escape—or a blind search for comfort. Comfort he needed, even if he wouldn’t have recognized the compulsion as anything other than the quest to satisfy a physical urge. Comfort she didn’t have it in her to withhold. She couldn’t give him the right words, or tell him the right direction to take, but she could give him this. Give them both this. Sliding her fingers up the back of his neck to thread into his hair, she parted her lips on a moan and gave.
And he took. Jesus, he took. With every stroke of his tongue, every nip of his teeth. His lips moved against hers, his beard brushed her skin. The thought of those lips moving against other parts of her—all parts of her—made her sweat. The thought of his beard brushing even more sensitive skin made her shiver.