“No,” he said gently. “That you are afraid, though you hide it. And that tells me that you are used to being in charge, used to hiding your fear as you tell others what to do.” He dipped his chin at her. “It is the mark of a good leader.”
“Awesome. Now?—”
“But there is a danger, too.”
She sighed, then arched a brow. “Do tell.”
“You act like a lieutenant in a war zone without the time off to rest. I think you are always on guard, always issuing orders, always under siege.”
“So? This is Detroit. It’s not so bad in this neighborhood, but it’s not so great either.”
“So how long have you fought to control everyone and everything? How long before you break?” He gestured back toward the basement without looking at it. “Things are very bad, Alyssa. You cannot manage as you always have. I think you know that.”
“And what would you suggest I do instead?” Her voice held a heavy layer of disdain, but he ignored it.
“I think you should act as normal people would.”
Her laugh came out short and derisive. “I don’t do hysterics.”
“Then what else would be normal?”
“Booze,” she said as she slugged the last of her beer. “Brownies,” she said when she was done.
“And babes,” he finished for her, only now realizing that she was echoing Vic’s favorite saying. He could remember dozens of times when his best friend had said just those words, just that way. And when he locked eyes with Alyssa, he felt her memory of it, too. How many times had she heard it? How many times had she harassed Vic about having no ambition in his life, no drive beyond those three things? She’d certainly done it a lot when he’d visited so long ago.
And now they’d said it to each other and the echo of the old Vic was her undoing. Her eyes abruptly teared up, her breath that had been short, now choked off with a sob. And her shoulders that had been so strong beneath a lifted chin suddenly caved in.
She slammed a fist against her mouth as she tried to hold back her emotions. He reacted on instinct, his grizzly surging forward before his mind even processed what was happening. A grizzly nuzzled his distressed mate. A grizzly licked her face and petted her fur. And a grizzly pressed his face to hers and purred in a gruff kind of way.
So he did that to her. He pulled her close and stroked her hair. It was still in that tight bun, so he tugged it free and burrowed his fingers into the mass. He pressed his cheek to hers and chuffed as if the sound were perfectly normal. And he held her while she clutched his shirt and cried as if her world were crumbling.
Her sobs came from the gut, pulled from deep inside and harsh to hear. There were no cries in those guttural sounds. No feminine keening or delicate snuffles. This was pain held deep. It was a hard knot that seemed to tear out of her and to fall on his shirt as she clutched him.
It lasted a long time, but his grizzly was always patient. It didn’t measure time the way a man did. It only knew that the female was in pain, so he kept nuzzling and petting until the pain was gone. Until the sobs eased and her body shuddered against him.
In time, he realized she was speaking words. Two of them repeated over and over.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
That made no sense to either man or bear, so Simon simply nuzzled her some more and let the grizzly continue chuffing as he stroked her hair.
“I’m sorry,” she said one last time as her clenched body finally eased. She still gripped his shirt in two fists, but her body wasn’t jerking against him. So he stopped petting her and simply waited with her head cupped in one hand and the other resting against her back.
Then she eased back. Barely an inch, but it was enough for her to exhale another sentence. “I’ve made a mess of your shirt.”
“I have others.”
She pulled back farther and her fists eased. Then she wiped her eyes with the palms of her hand. “Um, hold on.”
She didn’t look up at him, but shoved a hand into her jeans pocket. Then she came up with her car fob. The locks clicked open and then a second later, the trunk unlatched. He moved the pan of brownies to the roof of the car before they could topple while she grabbed tissues from the backseat.
“Your go bag,” she said from behind the Kleenex. “It’s in the trunk.”
Right. So he could change his shirt.
He stripped out of the wet tee, folded it into a small square, then unzipped his bag. He moved by rote, his attention fully centered on her though he did not look directly at her. She was blowing her nose and throwing the tissues away. Then she did something else in the backseat of her car, though he had no idea what.
It was busywork. Something to do so that she would not have to look at him. He gave her the privacy to settle herself while he pulled out another T-shirt and pushed the dirty one into its place in the bag. A moment later, he straightened and pulled on the new shirt.
