“I’m sure you’re ready to get out of here.” The smile she offers her tone. It says we’re in this together. Embarrassed heat fills my lungs, forcing a deeper breath in my soaked shirt.
What a fucking situation to be in. My shame burrows itself deeper. It’s too late, and I’m too tired, to belabor this by telling her all the reasons she should have let me rot in this holding cell until morning.
I get up from the bench. Hemingway leaves first. Eva waits by the door of the cell until I’m through. I collect a manila envelope with my wallet and keys from the cops at the desk.
Outside, the night air makes the cloth of my shirt stick to my skin. I want to blame the closed-throat, tight-chest sensation on the awful experience of having to exist in wet clothes. That’s not it. Of course it’s not. It’s Eva, ushering me and Hemingway to the curb of the sidewalk. Her driver waits in a black SUV.
Hemingway climbs into the third row.
“Here.” Eva’s holding out a blanket to me. “I thought this might be nice to have.”
You’re nice to have. You’re so nice that I fucked this up.
“Thank you.”
Quiet wraps us up like that blanket on the ride back to the Hughes Estate. Hemingway disappears inside as soon as we arrive. I turn to close the door behind Eva and find her leaning in to speak to the driver.
“What are you doing?”
She stands tall and gives him a wave. The SUV pulls away, and Eva takes my arm. “You need a shower and dry clothes.”
“I can handle that by myself.”
Eva purses her lips, reaching ahead to open the front door. “I’ve thought about it, and I don’t care. I’m coming in with you.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’ve been in jail. And you’re shivering.”
I hadn’t noticed. Now that Eva’s pointed it out, I feel the tremors moving through my limbs like the chop on the water.
At the door to my bedroom, I stop and face her. “You’ve done enough tonight, Eva. You should go home. Don’t start this now.”
“Don’t start what?”
“Don’t start taking care of me like I deserve it.”
She considers me, her eyes luminous in the dim hallway. Then she turns and goes through the door without another word.
I can’t breathe. My ribs can’t decide whether to squeeze the air out of my lungs or rattle around like a racehorse with a broken leg. A dull throb at my temples feels like a hangover.
Eva’s the one to start the shower. She takes the blanket from my clenched fists and tosses it into my hamper. Her fingers fly over the buttons of my shirt. It hits the floor with a wet slap, followed by my undershirt. My belt. My pants. Everything joins the pile.
I step into the shower with aching guilt pinching at my neck and my back and everywhere. “I’ll be out in a few minutes.”
The shower closes with a near-silent swoosh across the tile.
Eva lays her hand on my elbow.
My chest collapses. I turn into her arms, pulling her close. My cold hands have to be torture on her soft, warm skin, but Eva loops her hands around the back of my neck and pulls me into a kiss.
The hobbling fear that drove me to that party, that made me race the sailboat, explodes.
Eva holds tighter. I lift her from the floor and pin her to the wall of the shower. She melts into me as if I’m not a cold, despairing fool. Her forehead rests hot against my shoulder. Then her teeth dig in.
I drag my mouth along the side of her neck. What was I thinking, getting in that goddamn boat? What was I thinking, not doing this every second?
Eva lifts my chin and kisses me. My hips rock into her without permission. Her wet heat banishes the rest of the cold from my muscles. She responds to my grunt by taking me deeper, and then we’re together.
We’re together.
She’s here.
She wouldn’t leave.
I let my hands roam over her body. We haven’t had enough time, but every curve is familiar to me. Welcoming. Like coming home.
With my lips on her skin, home doesn’t feel like prison. It doesn’t feel like resignation. It’s right.
Hot water rushes down my skin and want burns through me like a fever. Eva’s pleasure in human form. I glutted myself on superficial pleasures for so long, and for what?
Fucking her, and being warmed through, loosens a knot at the base of my throat. I nip the curve of her shoulder. Lick her there. My chest is going to burst if I don’t speak. I have no control over what comes out.
I’m not raising a child in a home where he knows he’s not wanted.
“I can’t do it.”
Eva pulls my face to hers and kisses me. Every stroke pushes a half-breath out of her. It’s too late to shut me up. The dam’s broken.
“I can’t want it,” I murmur into her mouth. It’s the wrong time to tell her this. The wrong time to confess anything. She’s clenching around me. Her face is flushed with pleasure and heat. “I can’t, Eva. I’m so sorry. I’m so scared.”
She kisses me harder, throwing herself into it. I’ve just admitted an unbearable thing to her. I’ve proven that my proposal is bullshit. None of my advantages as a man make up for this failing. Eva rolls her hips against mine. Her fingernails dig in to my shoulders. Her eyes close. I don’t know how she can come at a time like this. I don’t know how I’m about to follow her over.
Eva tips her forehead against mine. Her breath is a soft curl over my lips. “It’s okay. It’s going to be okay. Don’t let go of me.”
That’s the last thing she says before pleasure overtakes her.
I don’t let go.
17
EVA
I couldn’t leave him alone.
Finn was not okay at the appointment. The way he behaved was not acceptable. I know that. And it’s not that I’ve forgiven him for his attitude about the baby. It’s not that I’m planning to give up on protecting our child from a lifetime of hurt.
Sometimes a person is an asshole. And they still need my help.
That’s my specialty, coming from the Morelli family.
I wake up in his bed, piled under soft blankets.
From the even sound of his breathing, Finn’s still asleep. I probably would be, too, if it weren’t for the pinch of hunger in my belly. It makes perfect sense that I also feel queasy and unsettled. It’ll go away once I’ve had something to eat. Another amazing quirk of being pregnant.
Sliding out from the covers doesn’t wake him. Finn’s sprawled on the pillow, looking as young as I’ve ever seen him. My heart tugs toward the urge to tuck him in tighter. He’s already covered.
The instinct to protect him makes a certain kind of sense.
As hurt as I’ve been, and as angry as I’ve been, I know what I’m looking at. Finn’s not the first man I’ve ever seen at his limit. I know he’s up against the wall emotionally.
I pad into the bathroom and brush my teeth. When Hemingway called me last night, I got up and went. A boat accident? Finn in jail? There are things you set aside your arguments for.
And when I saw him on that metal bench, wet and absolutely miserable…
I couldn’t leave him.