“I’m trying to decide,” I admitted.
“Between what?”
“Well, the thriller. Which is something I’ve never read. And the historical fiction, which I know I like. And this paranormal-sounding one. Oh, and this one,” I said, gesturing to the one that, from the blurb, sounded like it might be a romance or something like that, but the cover was tame.
“Well, that’s easy,” he said, and I was just about to ask him which he thought I’d like before he grabbed all of them off the shelf and put them in the fact. “Shush,” he said, grabbing the cart, and rushing off before I could say anything. “Here, take the cart and grab some snacks. I’m gonna go hunt down a suitcase for some of this stuff,” he said, gesturing toward that section.
“Can I get you anything?” I asked. “Kale? Spinach?” I teased, getting a surprised chuckle out of him.
“Smartass,” he said, smiling. “You see anything healthy, toss it in,” he said, then turned and left me.
By the time we left the beauty section, the cart was almost overflowing.
“No, really, I have the books!” I insisted when he turned down the craft aisle.
“So you can’t read and… paint a jewelry box?” he asked, gesturing toward one.
“I don’t know if I even like painting. Or sculpting. Or… whatever that is,” I said, gesturing toward what looked like a loom for knitting.
“Well, only one way to find out,” he said, then damn near cleared the shelves. “Relax, love,” he said as we made our way up to the cashier. “It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing,” I insisted.
“Listen, it’s—“ he started, turning back to me.
“No. It’s something. It’s a lot. It means a lot,” I added, finding the words clumsy on my tongue, but needing to say something, to let him know how much I appreciated all he was doing for me.
Seeing the sincerity in my eyes, his face softened.
“I’m happy to do it, Abs,” he said, reaching out to touch my hand on the cart handle, but pulling it right back, like he was worried that I might not like being touched.
From there, it was loading everything onto the belt, then refilling the cart with bags. And watching in stunned silence as the number flashed on the screen, and then Cary pulled out this massive wad of cash and counted it out like it was nothing.
I actually felt high off the whole encounter as we stood at the trunk at the hotel afterward, rolling and folding all the clothes into the suitcases he’d picked up, then arranging the toiletries and snacks before heading up.
The hotel was gorgeous, upscale, the kind of place that somehow managed not to look worn-in, despite how many people had stayed there over the years.
Our room was on a high floor with a floor-to-ceiling view of the Navesink River below.
The room itself was in shades of cream, spotless, and sported two queen-sized beds, a desk area, and a bathroom that was as big as my childhood bedroom. The soaking tub made me want to weep, and suddenly very thankful that Cary had the foresight to grab a couple bath bombs off an end-cap display.
“Wow,” I said after taking a long look around the space.
“I have to go return the SUV,” Cary reminded me, putting my books and craft supplies on the desk. “If you want, you can stay here. You will be safe for the fifteen—“
“I want to come,” I cut him off, voice a little desperate.
It wasn’t like I had any burning desire to ride on his motorcycle—in fact, I was dreading it—but the idea of being alone filled me with more dread than I could have anticipated.
Maybe it was because I’d been so alone and so scared for so long. If I didn’t have to be those things again, I didn’t want to.
It had nothing at all to do with liking being around Cary.
Nope.
Nothing at all.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Cary
I’ve been around for a while.
I’m saying this because it wasn’t like I was some young guy without life experience to teach him control and patience.
I had many years to get a handle of those things.
I generally prided myself on them.
But just three days in the hotel with Abigail was making me question everything I previously believed about myself.
It all started after the shopping spree.
When we went back to the clubhouse to drop off the SUV and grab my bike.
Yeah, I mean, it was little shit before that too, but the moment I finally convinced her to climb on behind me despite her reservations, that was when shit really took a turn.
Because, see, Abigail had been absolutely fucking terrified of the bike. That meant she scooted in real close, crushing her entire front to my back, her thighs pressing against the back of mine, her arms grabbing the sides of my cut.
I went ahead and made it worse for myself, of course, by reaching back, grabbing her wrists, and pulling her arms to grab me across my stomach.
Holding my cut would have been fine.
I was a fucking glutton for punishment.
But, yeah, the second her arms wrapped me up, and she pressed her face into my back, it was all over for me.
Any thoughts I might have had about being a good man, about being able to simply see her as a woman who needed some help instead of a woman I could be interested in went right out the window.
I tried to convince myself that I drove as slow as possible because she had been scared. The fact of the matter was, though, that I drove slow because I wanted to drag out the contact for as long as possible.
Was that fucked?
Yep, absolutely.
Especially given what she’d been through.
The last thing in the world she needed was another man who had less than pure intentions toward her.
So I told myself as we made our way back up to the hotel that I was going to keep a wide berth around her.
I’d been naive as fuck to think that would be enough for me.
Somehow I forgot that staying in a small space like a hotel together created forms of intimacy that I wouldn’t have had otherwise.
And it wasn’t just knowing she was naked a room away when I heard the tub running. No, it was that she was just a few feet away from me, tossing and turning in her sleep so her blankets slipped off. It was hearing her little murmurs as she did said shifting. It was hearing her little scoffs or sighs as she read one of the books she’d picked out. It was her laugh as we watched a movie. It was the way she mumbled to herself when she was frustrated that she couldn’t figure out the loom.
“Ugh. It’s hopeless. I would have made a terrible old-timey woman. I have no skill with yarn,” she declared, tossing the uneven multi-colored scarf she’d been trying to get right for several hours.
“Hey, at least you know that about yourself now,” I said, shrugging.
I’d suspected that Abigail had never really gotten a chance to be a person, if that makes any sense. Her father, then her husband, then that bastard Raúl had always seen her as a possession, as someone they could use to their own benefit. She’d never been allowed to explore things, to figure out who she was, or what she might be into.
Was figuring out if she could make a scarf some sort of monumental self-discovery? No. But at least it was something that she’d attempted, something she’d learned she had no love for.