“Hi.” She swipes one hand across her forehead. “Hello.”
I take in her rumpled state as she continues fighting her hair. The bun I managed to create last night is sagging down against one ear, long strands of hair falling loose around her face, sticking to the sweaty skin of her brow. She grabs the wad, attempting to tighten it back into place, her cheeks bright pink as she peers across the mattress at me.
I look over the scene. My sheets and blankets are tangled around her as she tries to stand up, looking flustered. “Did you fall out of bed?”
“You startled me.” She finally manages to get free, kicking away the covers. “I wasn’t expecting you to be up so early.”
“I usually go to work around six, so I end up awake at the same time on the weekends.” I take a cautious step inside, a little thrown at how much she suddenly seems like the woman I used to know. Real. Unfiltered. Unhindered. It’s like, for just a minute, she’s forgotten everything that’s trying to drag her down. Less than a day of being taken care of the way she deserves, and Brooke is already finding her way back to me.
It bolsters my confidence. Makes me feel like I’m on the right track.
Now I just have to stay the course.
“I made breakfast.” I stretch one of the bowls toward her. “Thought you might want to eat it in bed and go back to sleep for a while.”
“Umm.” She drags the sleeve of her shirt across her brow.
No. Not her shirt.
Myshirt.
Brooke is standing in my bedroom, wearing my flannel. If God is merciful, she’s got something underneath it, because I don’t know if I could survive discovering it’s the only thing touching her skin.
“I’ll come downstairs.” Her eyes don’t seem to want to touch mine as they dart around the room. “Give me just a minute.”
I tip my head in a nod, because I’ve already decided I’ll give her as much time as she needs. In all the things. “Okay. Come down when you’re ready.”
It takes an immense amount of strength to turn away from the sight of her in my room wearing my clothes, but I miraculously manage it. Reaching the first floor, I continue pushing myself into the kitchen, setting her food and mine at our normal spots before brewing a fresh pot of coffee to keep my hands busy. I don’t have a fancy machine like my mother or Titus, but hopefully drip and a good sweetened creamer will get the job done.
Brooke’s soft steps coming down the stairs have my hand gripping the handle of the pot tight as I slosh a portion of the nearly black brew into a mug. Buying myself a few more seconds, since I don’t know what I’m going to find when I look at her, I add in enough creamer to make it barely beige before putting the cup beside her oatmeal. After taking a steeling breath, I lift my gaze.
Fucking hell.
Brooke’s fingers toy with the hem of a pair of my boxer shorts. She’s pulled them on under the flannel she’s stillwearing, along with a thick pair of my socks that nearly reach her knees.
“I don’t have any clothes here, and the ones I had on last night felt kind of grimy, so after I took a shower, I grabbed some of your stuff.” She pinches the plush line of her lower lip between her teeth, releasing it before continuing. “I hope you don’t mind.”
Minding is about the farthest thing from what I’m doing right now.
Clearing my throat, I try and fail to remove my eyes from her. “I don’t mind. Everything in this house is yours to use as you see fit.”
Everything.
I motion at her rapidly cooling breakfast before the full meaning of my words can sink into her brain and make her skittish again. “Eat.”
Brooke must be hungry, because she settles into her chair quickly, taking in the bowl of food I’ve assembled. “This looks really good.” Her eyes lift to mine, a hint of a smile tugging at her lips. “Way different from the Pop-Tarts you used to throw at me when we were in college.”
I knew getting close with Brooke would mean answering for all my misdeeds. I just forgot throwing breakfast pastries at her was one of them.
Sitting down beside her, I watch as she takes a bite. “I said ‘catch’ first.”
Brooke laughs, the sound taking me entirely by surprise. I think it’s the first time I’ve actually heard it since she’s been here. “Like, two seconds before.”
“It was still before.” I pick up my spoon, pointing at her with the scooped end. “And if I remember correctly, you caught them.”
“Of course I caught them.” She takes another bite. “They were frosted strawberry, the superior Pop-Tart.”
“False.” I shake my head. “Everyone knows brown sugar is the best.”
