Even after what he’d just told her?
Wasn’t she paying attention?
She could resist him all she wanted, hold his hand and be his friend, but nothing would change him. His identity was set in stone. What did she want from him?
This, apparently. Just this.
Wanted whatever he was, a blend of faults and ugly truths, wanted him just to lie there with her.
It took him some time to wade through the disbelief, but he finally managed to slide one arm beneath Hannah, cradling the back of her head in one hand. Carefully, he drew her into his neck, his eyes closing over the balm she spread inside him. Not quite healing his wounds, but definitely dulling the pain for a while.
Just for a while. He’d just hold her . . . for a while.
Seconds later, Fox fell asleep in Hannah’s arms.
Chapter Thirteen
Hannah opened her eyes on Monday morning and absorbed the sight of Fox across the pillow they shared, morning light beginning to peek through the blinds behind him, outlining his bedhead in burnished gold. With his mouth slightly parted, beard growth shadowing his jaw and upper lip, he was startlingly gorgeous. Seriously? At six A.M., he could be shooting an advertising campaign for Emporio Armani.
After last night, however . . . she couldn’t look at him without seeing past the packaging to the uncut gem beneath. Smooth and glorious on the outside. But on the inside, his light hit a jagged peak and refracted in a thousand different directions.
A dull ache spread down the middle of her chest, deepening so quickly that she had to press a palm to the spot, rubbing to alleviate the pressure. The pain he’d revealed last night had walked across the bed and burrowed into her breast, refusing to vacate—and she didn’t want it to leave. She didn’t want him to carry it alone. He’d clearly been doing that a long time, letting the damage fester.
What did it mean for Hannah to help him shoulder the burden of his past? Was she being a good friend—and a friend only? Or did her determination to stand with Fox come from somewhere else entirely?
Somewhere . . . romantic?
Because that wouldn’t be a good idea.
That wouldn’t be a good idea at all.
After last night, she would never consider him a player again. By selling himself short and doubling down on his irreverent image, he was playing himself more than anything. But he was still Fox Thornton, confirmed bachelor and connoisseur of women. He didn’t want a relationship, period. He’d told her that.
So no matter what sticky, reckless feelings might be bubbling to the surface, the supportive buddy position was the only one available to her, wasn’t it?
Hannah’s thoughts scattered like the head of a dandelion when Fox’s blue eyes opened, spearing her from the other side of the pillow. They were warm, a little relieved. And then he blinked and up went his guard.
“Hey,” he said slowly, studying her closely. “You slept here all night.”
Words crammed into her chest. Phrases she’d learned from her therapists over the years. Things she wanted to say to Fox that would explain why he felt so terrible over what happened in college. Suggestions for adjusting his outlook, and assurances that none of it was his fault.
For once, all the fancy supportive language in the world felt inadequate, though. Somehow, over the course of the night, she’d entered the fray with Fox without making a conscious decision. She was in it, this battle for his soul. Now that she was here, however, it was beginning to seem unlikely that she could remain too long without . . . falling for him.
God. She was. Falling fast.
“Yeah,” she murmured finally, sitting up and brushing some static-charged strands of hair out of her face. “Sorry, I must have really passed out.”
He pushed up onto an elbow. “Wasn’t looking for a sorry. It’s fine.”
Hannah nodded. She looked over at him and . . . oh boy, there it was. An overwhelming urge to touch him. To push him down onto the mattress, climb on top, and tell him in between kisses that he was way more than a hall pass. Way more than he gave himself credit for. But that went beyond supportive friend. Those were the actions of a supportive girlfriend—and she couldn’t be that for him.
“I have to be at work early,” Hannah managed.
“Right.” He pushed a hand through his hair, visibly at a loss. “Huh.”
“What?”
His big shoulder shrugged, the laughter not quite reaching his eyes. “It feels like I’m sending you off with nothing.”
The chasm that had formed down the center of her heart last night widened, and she barely managed to swallow a sound of distress. And then the anger flooded in. How dare his teachers and full-grown adults sexualize him at such a young age? How could his father bring women over while his eighteen-year-old son was visiting? Who were those monsters he’d befriended in college? They probably worked for the IRS now. And yes, a fair bit of rage was directed squarely at herself, because she’d definitely called him a pretty-boy sidekick the first time they’d met. Peacock after that. She wanted to bang her head against the wall now for being like everyone else.