“Something inappropriate,” she mumbles.
My lips curl. “Yep. I’m not delighted about the situation that led you here, but I’m in no way put out. Also, us being alike doesn’t mean you have to go out of your way to compare our situations like that. Okay?”
Calypso nods slightly. Finishing her hot chocolate, she sets the mug down on the floor beside the couch. Not making eye-contact, she whispers, “Is thiswrong?”
Wrong? “This?” I ask.
She still won’t drag her gaze up to me. “My being here. In your room.”
“What do you mean?” Folding my arms, I lift a brow. “Is it wrong for you to ask for help? Or is it wrong because I’m a guy, and you’re a girl?”
Her chest trembles with her intake of breath, and she whispers, “That second one.”
I could laugh. “I’m sure a considerable number of pricks would deem it wrong on a mere basis of supposition and judgment, but the basis of those ‘wrong’ assumptions isn’t going to happen.” It doesn’t matter that I’m attracted to her. It doesn’t matter that I’m suppressing the idea of her sleeping in my bed. All the nasty little “wrong” thoughts I’m having don’t matter half as much as the fact I will never—in a million years, not even if we’re in a romantic relationship—touch her likethatwhile she’s still stained with tears. Not even if it might help.
Maybe I’m a bit old fashioned, butthatisn’t a distraction. It means so much more. And while I did date off and on in high school and fool around a bit more than I want to admit, I’ve never met someone who made me want to go that far.
Until Calypso.
Her lips part, and I swear she’s going to apologize again, but she bites her tongue. “Because you’re a gentleman.”
“Precisely.” So long as she can’t read my mind, I’m aperfectgentleman.
Anger erupts on her face suddenly, frustration knotting her expression. Her fingers dive for her hair, then she’s snatching her braids over her shoulders and yanking out the clips. My heart races when her fingers start unworking the twists.
“Do you have a brush or a comb?” she asks after a moment, and I nearly choke on my answer.
Heading to the adjacent bathroom, I retrieve my brush and wander out to the couch. She’s halfway done with one, the soft waves of the three bound strands flicking this way and that while she undoes it fully.
I delicately set the brush down beside her and linger.
“Thanks,” she murmurs, unraveling the second completely.
My breath holds when she lifts the brush, then drags it through the waves. Her hair fluffs down her back, the gentle curls surrounding her shoulders all the way down past her waist.
I knew her hair was long. With how long her braids are, it has to be, but I never suspected it would look like a golden cloud surrounding her. My fingers itch to touch it and caress the locks, so I curl them into my palms and remind myself to behave.
“It’s the first time I’ve seen your hair free,” I say, but my voice isn’t mine. There’s something wrong with it.
She looks up at me, and it feels like she heard whatever is wrong, but she doesn’t say a thing about it. “I know.” She bobs her head side to side, and her hair reacts like it’s weightless. “You have an obsession with flicking my braids. Who knows what you’ll do with all this.”
Who knows indeed.
As though my bad reputation with her braids gives me permission to be bad now, I extend my hand and let my fingers run through her hair.
Calypso freezes, looking at me. Her large blue eyes have almost dried even if the faint trails of tears still touch her soft pink cheeks. The lovely shape of her lips part, timid or entranced. Perhaps both.
She really is beautiful.
Breathless, she whispers, “What?”
I blink. “Did I say that out loud?”
Barely a nod, her head dips by less than an inch.
Chuckling, I pull my fingers free. “Oops. It’s not like I haven’tsaid it before.”
“Never right before I’m about to sleep in your bed.”
