“I’m not.” Her follow-up sniff confirmed that pathetic untruth.
“Why were you crying?”
“I have a headache.”
“I would think a tough girl like you would not cry over a headache. May I come in and take care of you?”
She blinked at me. “What does that mean?”
I didn’t know. My typical methods of care usually involved orgasms. Not that I wouldn’t be interested, but I knew better than to mess with a girl like Lauren Yates. She deserved better than that, a thought I never expected to hear in my brain in a million years. Was this what they called a conscience?
I searched it for something else to offer.
“I can make tea.”
She provided no response. Was tea not a good thing?
“My mother swears—or swore by it.”
“I’m not even sure we have any.” But she was drawing the door wider. That last-second switch to the past tense had done its work. A dead mother was remarkably useful, though I despised myself a little.
I stepped inside, closed the door, and placed the shopping bag with the console down. “Where is Jason?”
“He’s staying over with Emily.”
His latest fling. Pretty, but not much else.
“What about the other roommate?”
“He moved out at the holidays. Why all the questions?”
“You are alone. And upset.”
“I told you. I have a headache.”
“Yes, you did. Let us make tea.” I gestured with my hand for her to lead the way. After a moment she went ahead of me, and I got a better look. Yoga pants hugged her ass, giving it a sexy sweetheart shape. Usually, she wore baggy shorts over leggings—Michigan was cold for most of the school year—and oversized T-shirts or sweats.
Not tonight. Everything on her body revealed a sensual wave of curves. I had caught a glimpse the first time we spoke, when I awoke her as I had sex with another girl. That night, more than six months ago, I had decided I wanted Lauren in a way that was not safe. For me, but especially not for her. I did not need to ogle her in yoga pants and revealing sleep shorts. I was enraptured with her fearless attitude and wry sense of humor.
Now, to see this vulnerability—headache or not—only drew me in deeper. I should not have offered to help but help I would.
“Take a seat. I will do what I can with your supplies.”
I proceeded to open cupboards, conscious of her watching me yet offering no input. Perhaps it amused her to see me fumble my way around her kitchen. Finally, I came across a box of a lemon-ginger nonsense and a single English breakfast teabag in a crumpled packet.
“A little caffeine is good for a headache. Do you have a kettle?”
“Just a pot.”
“It will do.” I went about my business, and something about the companionable silence soothed me. Lauren was not a twittering kind of girl, which was eminently enjoyable. Finally, I set two cups down.
She took a sip. “Not bad.”
“It is the best I can do given the resources.”
“A poor workman blames his tools.”
“Back home, we say ‘plahohmu tantzohru yaytsah myeshayut,’ which means, ‘a bad dancer blames his balls.’”
