“Sounds like a plan. Thank you. And now you should go and write. You have a deadline.” His kindness cut the last threads of her control and she turned her back on him to hide the spill of tears. She expected to hear his footsteps on the stairs as he retreated to a place of safety, but instead she felt his hand close over her shoulder.
“When did she die?”
She was torn between desperately wishing he’d leave her alone and wanting to talk about how she felt. “Last year. In the fall, when the leaves were changing color. I kept wondering how everything around me could seem so vibrant when she was gone. And I feel guilty being sad because she was ninety-three. And she didn’t linger or anything. That was great for her but hard for me because it was a shock.” She still remembered the phone call. She’d dropped the mug she’d been holding, spilling scalding coffee all over the floor and her bare legs. “She’d be furious if she could see me now—” She blew her nose again. “She’d remind me that she’d had a great life, was very loved and had all her mental faculties right up until the end. She always focused on what was right in her life, not what was wrong, and she’d want me to do the same. But that doesn’t stop me missing her. And now you’re standing there thinking ‘what am I supposed to do with this sobbing woman,’ but honestly you don’t have to do anything. Just go about your business. I’ll be fine. I’ll just be extra nice to myself for a little bit until I feel better.”
But he didn’t leave. What he did was turn her around and pull her into his arms.
It was so surprising that for a moment she didn’t move. Then the unexpected sympathy tipped her over the edge and Eva dissolved into great choking sobs. She felt the strength of his hand on her head as he stroked her hair gently, while his free arm held her close.
He held her while she cried herself out, murmuring soft indistinct words of comfort. She breathed in male warmth and felt the reassuring weight of his arm supporting her and she closed her eyes, trying to remember the last time she’d been held like this. It shouldn’t feel this good. He was a stranger, but there was something about the strong embrace that filled the emptiness inside her.
Finally, when she was drained of emotion, he eased her away from him so that he could see her face.
“What does ‘being extra nice to yourself’ involve?” The kindness in his voice connected straight to her insides.
“Oh, you know—” She sniffed. “Not telling myself I’m fat, or beating myself up for not exercising as much as I should, or for eating that extra square of chocolate.”
“You do that?”
“Doesn’t everyone?” She rubbed at the damp patch she’d made on his shirt, embarrassed but at the same time grateful. “I feel better. Thank you. I never would have thought you’d be such a brilliant hugger. You’d better let me go or I’ll be crying all the time just to get you to hug me. Go and work.”
“Tell me you don’t seriously think you’re fat.”
“Only on a bad day, but that’s because I love food and if I’m not careful I do become a little extra curvy.”
“Extra curvy?” There was a seam of laughter in his voice. “Is that like extra strong coffee? In other words more of the part that’s already good?”
“Now I know why you’re a writer. You know exactly which words to use.” She forced herself to step back. “Thanks for making me feel better.”
“I know what it’s like to lose someone you love.” The laughter was gone from his voice. “You think you’re doing fine, you think you have it all under control, and then suddenly it slams into you. It’s like sailing on a smooth ocean and suddenly a giant wave hits from nowhere and almost swamps your boat.”
No one had ever described the way she was feeling so perfectly.
“That’s how you feel?”
“Yes.” He lifted his hand and stroked her cheek gently. “It’s supposed to get easier, so hang in there.” His gaze held hers and there was a new intimacy, and a strange, unexpected heat that stole through her against her will.
Arousal.
He was comforting her, and she was aroused. She would have been embarrassed, except she saw her own feelings mirrored in the depths of his eyes.
“You should go and write.”
“Yes.” His voice was roughened at the edges and he let his hand drop and stepped back. “And you should cook.”
They were both stiff and formal, both denying the moment.
Eva went back to the kitchen, trying to forget how it had felt to be held by him.
She cooked all day, stirred, whisked, simmered and tasted while on the other side of the huge glass windows the storm blew itself to a frenzy. New York was eclipsed by swirling white, the streets and the buildings blurred by snow. Restaurants, bars and even Broadway had closed.
Eva felt a pang of concern for the emergency services and people who still had to be out in that terrible storm. She hoped no one was injured.
Occasionally she glanced up the stairs, but the door to the office remained closed. Lucas, she knew, was dealing with his own injury.
At lunchtime she took up a tray, but heard the soft thud of computer keys through the door and decided writing was more important than food. She retreated downstairs with the tray and went back to her cooking.
Paige called twice, the first time to ask questions about the engagement party they were planning for a client based in Manhattan, and the second to check Eva’s availability for New Year’s Eve.