“You could tell?”
She reaches up and taps a finger against the pulse at the base of my neck. “Only because of this.” I want to grab her hand and press it there more firmly, but she takes it back like she’s touched a stove. “Thanks for coming to my rescue.” I want to tell Naomi that she pushed me out of my comfort zone. That in a way, she rescued me from my bullshit orange juice routine that might have gone on indefinitely. But she distracts me. “Can I ask you something personal, Mr. Bristow?”
“Shoot.”
“Why did you come home to take care of Birdie? Where are your parents?”
I encounter a familiar surge of anger and it takes me a moment to answer. “I got leave to come home for Nat’s funeral. It was only supposed to be a week, but I couldn’t believe the way my parents looked at Birdie. Treated her. They…” I break off to bite down on my tongue. “They cringed when she walked into the room. And I know it was grief. I understand. But I couldn’t leave my sister in that environment. I took an extended leave and told them to get out of St. Augustine until they pulled themselves together. My aunt on my mother’s side lives in Dallas, so they found an apartment near her.”
“Poor Birdie. That must have been so hard. Her own parents…”
“Yeah.” I rub at a kink in my neck. “I think she’s dealing with it all right now.”
Naomi nods, scrutinizing me with a thoughtful frown. “Have you asked her how she’s doing?”
I drop my hand, laughing without humor. “I’ve reached about the end of my capabilities. I’m not exactly cut out to raise a teenager. Food, a roof, a pageant coach. These are the things I can provide.”
She wants to press me. Or disagree. But she doesn’t. “Don’t forget you can cook a mean halibut,” she says, referring to the one time I convinced her to come to dinner.
“Apparently my roasted potatoes need work. You didn’t touch them.”
“Of course not,” she gasps, rearing back. “They’re made of carbohydrates.”
“You just ordered Nutella French toast,” I point out.
“Carbs don’t count during brunch. Everyone knows that.”
I don’t bother subduing my smile. “Who scared you off weeknight potatoes?”
“Well…” Her nose wrinkles. “Potatoes were always on the table at dinner time, but my mother would frown every time I ate one, so I stopped.”
That pisses me off good, but I’ve got her standing close and talking to me. I’m determined not to ruin the moment or send her running. “So it wasn’t me and Birdie that scared you away, it was the starch.”
“You didn’t scare me away.” The stilted way she says it tells me that’s not entirely accurate. “Why would you think that?”
There’s an obvious answer to that—I definitely don’t hide my interest, much as she tries to conceal hers—but there’s something else I’ve been curious about since that dinner. “You seemed nervous when we argued.”
“Did I?” She smooths her sleeves absently, then frowns over a stray thread. “I suppose I’ve gotten used to playing mediator.” Her attention leaves the thread and she seems to realize what she said. “Um. To my parents. They argued a lot about the affair. Gosh, I still haven’t gotten used to talking about it out loud to someone other than my family.”
“You made it sound like a big deal. No one in Charleston talks about it?”
“Only the polite way. Behind our backs.”
We share a quiet laugh. “Did you mediate out of necessity or because you enjoy it?”
“What an odd question.” She shifts side to side, patting her hair. “I don’t know. I’ve never thought it through. Not in that particular way.” A beat passes. “Out of necessity, I suppose.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes. The fighting scared me when I was a child. I didn’t want to be scared,” she whispers, cracking my chest in half. “So I did whatever I could to distract them. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it didn’t. And then I got older and it became more of a burden than something that inspired fear. I must just be conditioned to jump in and calm the waters.”
“They shouldn’t have argued in front of a child. Especially not about that.” I swallow, wishing I had the freedom to pull her closer, kiss her forehead. “I’m sorry. It’s not your job to calm the waters. I might not be…thrilled you were getting married the day you ran away, but I am glad you made the waves this time. Good for you, baby.”
“Thank you,” she breathes, looking up at me, like she’s seeing me for the first time. We remain suspended there for long moments, before she visibly snaps out of it and stands up straighter. “Here’s what I know. Next time, I’m going to eat enough potatoes to choke.”
“Good girl.”
The dose of heat in my voice brings her eyes back snapping up to mine and there’s no help for it, I have to get closer. This woman is not available to me, but I want her anyway. I can’t imagine anyone else having her, frankly. Especially when she’s moistening her lips, clearly aware I need to kiss her. Christ, she’s such an impactful combination of vulnerable and funny and brave and empathetic. And seriously, since when does empathy make my cock hard? If I pushed forward with my hips, Naomi would feel the erection she conjured up with her nearness. Again.