“Wait, you knew?”
Bobby’s look told me: yes, he’d known. There was also a hint of: it was incredibly obvious.
I laughed in spite of myself. “Yeah, well, Channelle picked the wrong guy this time. Foster definitely wasn’t going to be able to take care of her—if anything, I think Foster was hoping she’d be an upgrade, and he could leech off her money for a while.”
“Maybe that’s why they argued,” Bobby said. “Maybe that’s why the argument escalated.”
“And he killed her,” I said sourly. “I know. I still think it was Woody, though.”
Bobby made a face. And then he splashed me again.
Laughing—and, yes, shrieking a little—I tried to shield myself with my hands.
“Bobby, stop! Stop! Stop it! You’re getting me all wet!”
“You’re in the bath,” he said as he kept splashing me.
“My wound!”
He instantly stopped, of course; he’s a softie. And his expression was so contrite that I almost felt bad when I smirked at him.
Contrition gave way to a smile that spread slow and hot across his face. “You jerk,” he said, and some of that same heat scorched the bottom of his voice. He got up on his knees and splashed his way toward me.
“What are you doing?”
“What do you think I’m doing?” he asked in that same hot-enough-to-smoke voice. He straddled me. And then he kissed me.
Listen: we were in a bath, and we were warm, and I love him. I’m not responsible for my body having ideas.
He chuckled, and it had that same black-bottomed heat to it as he kissed a line down my neck.
I made a little sound. I shifted around, sending the water in the tub sloshing, to try to get more of him—touch more of him, press harder against him. He had one hand on my chest, and I knew without looking that he was touching the bruise Woody had left. His mouth was soft on sensitive skin, and the faintest hint of his stubble—because he never had much—still made me squirm.
And then my brain started to race, of course. Because of what had happened last time. And how stupid I’d been. And the possibility that it would all happen again—him saying things, and me being, well, me.
Bobby was working on what I suspected was going to be a truly admirable hickey on my collarbone when he must have sensed the change. He stopped, sat back, and looked me in the eye.
I broke first. “I’m sorry about last time. What I said. I feel like I messed things up.”
“You didn’t mess anything up. I’m sorry I made you uncomfortable.”
“You didn’t. I mean,youdidn’t. I know you’re trying to express yourself, and I know you’re trying to tell me how you feel about me, and Bobby, I love that so much. It means so much to me. I’m so happy that you want to do that for me. I just—” I hesitated, trying to think of the clearest way to say it. What came out was “I’m just so freaking weird.”
The corner of his mouth tilted, but it wasn’t exactly a smile. “You’re not weird. And I’m glad you told me.” He hesitated, and I recognized—with surprise—the sudden vulnerability behind his silence. “I, um, did some reading.”
I sat up a little straighter. “Oh.”
“Because I don’t ever want you to feel uncomfortable or unhappy or—” He took a breath. “I guess I want you to know I really do think those things about you. I wasn’t just saying them. But I also want to recognize that you might not see yourself the same way, or you might feel uncomfortable hearing those things, or feel some kind of pressure.”
“That’s what I was saying. I’m a weirdo, so I’m going to work on this. I told Keme it’s important to listen to what your partner wants to tell you, because that’s a way of making yourself vulnerable, and I want you to know that Idowant to make myself vulnerable with you, and I want to be here for you, and emotionally available, and—”
“Dash.” He waited, and since I was smart enough to let him speak, he continued, “Idowant to express myself with you. That’s a me thing, and I’m working on it. And I’m going to keep doing better. But I also think there’s something else we could try, you know. When we’re together. To communicate.”
My eyes stung. I reached up to touch the part in his hair, and my smile felt so soft it was almost a noodle. “Bobby, you don’t have to fix everything.”
“This isn’t a fix,” he said, and to my surprise—and relief—I got the goofy grin. “This is a pivot.”
We dried off, and he led me to bed, one hand holding mine. There was something so sweet about it, so gentlemanly, that I wanted to cry all over again, and maybe some of that emotion showed in my face as we lay down because he touched my cheek, a question in his eyes. I nodded, which was as close as I could come to telling him I was okay. When he kissed me, it was barely more than a brush of his lips. Another question. I slid my fingers into his hair and kissed him back.
