“I, uh, don’t have any clean clothes,” I say, my cheeks heating with embarrassment.
“Of course,” he replies. “Let me just go get you something.” He brushes past me gently and walks into the bedroom, heading for the dresser in the corner. He starts rifling around in drawers before walking over to another door and stepping over the threshold.
Awkwardly standing in the room that’s tastefully decorated in a combination of pale greens and cream, I wait for him to return. He comes back a couple of minutes later with a few items of clothing.
Handing me the clothes, he steps back, his eyes soft. “I didn’t know what you’d like, so I got a few things,” he utters shyly, something I never would have thought to associate with him.
I smile gratefully at him as I shuffle on my feet. “Thank you.”
James looks at me with an intense stare, nothing creepy or leering, something more like… protectiveness? “You had me worried there for a minute, pretty girl,” he breathes as he massages the back of his neck.
I give him a small smile, embarrassed by the last few days, but that doesn’t stop my gaze from roaming over him—his black T-shirt and workout shorts cling to him in the best way, giving me a little something to get my good mood back. His skin glistens with a light sweat, meaning he must have been in the home gym when I called. I bite my lip, and goosebumps pebble my skin.
“I’ll let you get dressed.” He nods to the clothes. “I’ll, uh—fuck—” James trips over his feet as he’s walking backwards, not looking where he’s going, as his gaze is firmly attached on me. “I’ll, uh, be downstairs in the kitchen when you’re ready.”
I chuckle softly and nod my head as he retreats, almost running away.
Looking through the clothes he gave me, I see a pair of boxers, a black T-shirt, and a hoodie. Dropping the towel and tugging them on, I find a comb in the bathroom and brush my hair. I use the hair tie from my wrist and put my wet hair in a ponytail, and make my way downstairs.
Entering the kitchen, I notice James isn’t there. Not wanting to look for him, I go to the coffee machine and pour myself a cup. I grabthe creamer from the fridge and start rooting around in his cupboards for honey.
“Bottom right-hand cupboard,” I hear from behind me, and I jump, smacking my head on the door.
“Ouch,” I mumble as I rub the sore spot. “Announce yourself next time, please.”
James chuckles as he walks into the kitchen. He’s showered and changed into a different pair of shorts and a white T-shirt. “Sorry, pretty girl, my bad.”
“My bad? Whosaysthat?” I ask as I grab the honey and squeeze in a couple of teaspoons worth. Once done, I turn around, leaning against the counter.
He shrugs, a grin tugging at the corner of his lips. “All the cool kids.”
“Kill me now,” I mumble under my breath and use my free hand to pinch the bridge of my nose.
“Raven,” James snaps, and I immediately glance up at his harsh tone.
Then it hits me. My eyes go wide as I say, “My bad?”
“Don’t ever talk about you dying in front of me again,” he grinds out through clenched teeth.
I can feel the heat of his words from the opposite side of the kitchen, and I know he means them.
“I won’t.” I nod. “It was a bad choice of wording.”
“How are you feeling?” He doesn’t come any closer, just watches me with an intensity I can’t work out.
I shrug. “I’m dealing with it in my own way. Had a meltdown and a good old cry, now I just need to process it.” Taking a sip of my coffee, I continue, “But until I know the hows and whys, I won’t be able to.”
“Why not?” he asks curiously, leaning against the counter and folding his arms across his chest.
I cup my mug tighter in my hand, not looking at him. “I’ve always needed to understand how other people’s minds work. Like, why would someone do that? Why did that guy think it was okay to behave like that?” I can feel the frustration simmering away, my brain unable to cope with the whys as I shrug and take a sip of my coffee. “Emma said it’s because I’m empathetic? That I need to understand both sides of the story in order to make up my own mind.” I peer up at him, his gaze soft as I explain how weird I am. “It’s both a blessing and a curse,” I laugh. “It’s great to get other people’s points of view, but a headache when I’m trying to make it all fit in my head.”
“I think that’s a great quality to have, pretty girl. It shows you care about people,” he says softly.
“But fewer people who care about me.”
“People care, they just… don’t know how to show it.”
“Does that include you, pretty boy?” Hope blooms in my chest, but his quick change in conversation gives me whiplash—a common occurrence with this man, it would seem.
