Nice.I almost laugh. What a ridiculous understatement.
His face is magnificent. Gorgeous, even. Under the cloak of night and darkness, I can admit what I haven’t been willing to: Ben is insanely attractive—especially when he’s not talking.
He has one of those angular jawlines that’s a mesmerizing series of cuts and right angles you only see on movie stars. A portrait artist would beg to sketch his likeness in charcoal. His cheekbones are basically chiseled from stone. It’s the Mount Rushmore of faces.
I desperately want to touch it.
My adrenaline spikes and my breathing shallows as I weigh the ramifications of him waking up and finding my hand molesting his face. It wouldnotbe good.
But if I can just do it softly enough... and if he stirs, I can snatch it away and pretend to be asleep...
I’m floating outside my body as I watch my hand reach out to his face. I trail my fingers lightly—ever so lightly—over his cheek, his prickly stubble rough under the pads of my fingertips. His skin is warm, and I gulp as my heart jumps into my throat.
He breathes out a small sigh and I freeze, drawing my hand backslightly. But he doesn’t stir, just sort of tilts his head fractionally closer to where my palm had been. I smile, the realization warming my belly:Maybe I’m not the only one hungry for human contact.
I replace my fingers and continue tracing them down his jaw to his chin, then brush my knuckles up toward his ear in a lazy circuit of discovery. I run my hand up and back for about as long as I dare, then cradle his cheek in my palm, testing the shape of him, and it’s as I suspected: His face fits perfectly in my hand.
I let it rest there for a moment, savoring the solid heat of him, because I know it’ll never happen again. I sear the memory on my brain before reluctantly pulling my hand away, breaking our contact.
He’s a peaceful sleeper, his breathing slow and deep and quiet. It’s surprising—I would have expected a guy his size to snore like a bear. I’m willing to bet he gives off so much heat that if I were wrapped in him, I wouldn’t need the thick electric blanket I use in the winter.
I’m such a creeper.
An uncomfortable sense of disquiet steals over me. The fact that I’m noticing—fine,appreciating—so much about Ben’s body is not good. Not good at all.
Okay, Kate, let’s recalibrate yourself here.
I look at him, trying to conjure up memories of all the rude and offensive things he’s said and done to me since I met him. I command myself to dredge up the feelings of hatred and annoyance that typically accompany his presence.
I dig deep.
But they just aren’t there. I can’t do it—and I feel guilty for even trying when he’s spent his whole night taking care of me. Consciences are the worst.
Am I really experiencing this inner turmoil all because Ben’s finallyshown me a modicum of kindness? Am I willing to reevaluate his entire personality based on one night of human decency? Is that all it takes to forget the weeks of abuse I’ve suffered at his hands?
Or have I been wrong about him this whole time?
I cringe as I recall all the nasty things I’ve said to him, all the ways I’ve belittled him since I met him. I’ve reduced him to a stereotype, an archetype—basically, all the types. I’ve called him every name in the book, both to his face and in my head. I told him he was everything I hate about this town. The memory makes me wince.
How will I go back to hating him after this?
One thing’s for sure: I need to figure this out, or things are about to get really weird around the office.
I’m not sober enough for this level of introspection. I make a mental note to analyze it further when my head isn’t pounding. I resettle myself under the covers and—flicking away any lingering misgivings—scoot a little closer, cuddling up to him as much as I dare with me under the covers and him above. I relax against him, matching my breaths to his long, slow inhales and exhales.
His peaceful face is the last thing I see before I drift off again.
Chapter 13
I wake up to noises in my kitchen. I live alone; why are there noises in my kitchen?
I sit up but immediately regret it when my head screams in protest. I sink back onto the pillows, heart galloping in my chest, trying to figure out what’s happening.
Do I have an intruder? Or worse, did I bring someone home last night and... forget? I wince at the thought.
I smell coffee.If it is an intruder, they’re courteous at least.
I glance around my room in a daze, cursing the sunlight that’s filtering through my curtains and splicing into my throbbing head. My eyes zero in on a foreign object on the floor: men’s shoes. I stare at them for a moment before muddled memories begin to wash over me.
