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“I don’t even know what the fuck nebulous means but I do get what you’re saying.” His breath tickled my temple. “You seem like a girl who needs answers. We’ve talked about this before.”
“Yes, we have. And you said there aren’t answers. That you just have to deal with it.” I wanted to ask about Camp, but I didn’t want to push him to share what he didn’t want to. So I tried to hint. “I can understand your perspective now.”
“Why, because you’ve seen my messy underbelly? My lack of control over my emotions?”
I thought about that. Did he mean his drinking? I couldn’t say that I had seen him wildly out of control. He seemed contained, controlled, with me. “No. I don’t think you’re as messy as you think you are. I just meant because there will never be a conclusive answer for Camp’s paternity.”
“I don’t want to talk about that, Sophie,” he murmured.
He didn’t sound angry. Just sad. “But if you want to, you can.” Counseling wasn’t my forte but I wanted him to understand I was sympathetic.
“I don’t. You may be able to control your emotions but I need to ignore them or things will get ugly.”
I tried to glance behind me. “What makes you think I can control my emotions?”
“Because you’re you. You’re too smart to let emotions get the best of you. You are ruled by logic.”
Now I twisted fully so I could see him, study his face in the shadows. “I’m not a sociopath or a Vulcan. I have feelings. Lots of them. More than I want.” Especially with him. He drew out feelings in me that weren’t precisely welcome.
He studied me, his grip tightening on me. “I’m sorry. That sounded shitty. What are you feeling, Sophie Bigelow?”
I could give a detailed response. I could list all the emotions running through me, of which there were plenty. Contentment, desire, giddiness, excitement, some confusion, a little doubt.
But I settled for the most prevalent. “Happy. That’s how I feel right now. With you.”
For a second Cain didn’t speak and I wondered if I had pushed it too far. If I had made him uncomfortable. If he knew it was well and truly no longer just a hookup for me anymore.
But then he said, “Me too, Red. Me too.”
—
My first thought was panic. Then it was to fuck Sophie, take it back to sex. Strip her down and avoid emotion. Avoid it like the goddamn plague.
But that wasn’t fair to do to her. And it wasn’t particularly manly. It was a pussy move and if there was one thing Sophie brought out in me besides desire, it was the urge to be a better man.
So instead of bolting or redirecting to sex, I just held Sophie and enjoyed the touch of another human being.
This didn’t have to be like the pain of holding Camp.
It could heal instead of wound.
It could be the simple connection between two souls wandering around mostly alone.
Yet, that was the problem.
Sophie relaxed against me, sharing her feelings, stirred up a need I didn’t know I had. A need to protect. To love.
I sat there as long as I could before the urge to run got too strong. It heated and boiled and rose until I couldn’t sit still. My foot tapped. My hand shook. My teeth ground together. I had to escape. I needed to breathe and I needed a goddamn drink.
“Up,” I said without warning, tapping her on the hip. “I need to piss.”
I didn’t really but it was a good excuse. I needed a second to get my shit together. “I’m going to grab another water too. Is that cool?”
“Sure. You want me to show you to the kitchen?”
“Nah. I can find it.” I was already into her room, striding toward the bedroom door. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
Run away. Run, run, motherfucker. I hated my reaction but I couldn’t stop it. I needed to get out. I ran down the grand staircase and padded my way across the house. Motion sensors beeped and I wondered briefly if I was on security cameras in my underwear. Probably.
