Page 38 of Revere: A Legacy Novel

“It crossed my mind, considering your … you know.”

“My history?” She laughed. “It’s my responsibility to handle my triggers and navigate daily life that are filled with said triggers. It is not everyone else’s responsibility around me to change their lifestyles and preferences to manage my needs. It is my choice not to drink; it is not your choice or necessity.”

“Although they could manage it, if you needed them to.”

“Except I don’t,” she said simply. “I don’t mind, Cross. Honestly.”

Cross was kind of shocked at Catherine’s depth in her explanation, and how flippantly she offered it. As though it was something she had been told again and again, and likely repeated to herself over and over.

Maybe it was.

How was he to know?

Cross poured his whiskey into a lowball and sipped from the glass, all the while keeping an eye on Catherine. “I assumed alcoholics—”

“I’m not an alcoholic, or a drug addict,” Catherine interjected quietly. “I am someone who suffers from spells of clinical depression, accompanied by crippling anxiety caused by trauma. I used to self-medicate in an effort to feel better during those spells, which led my body into a dependency, as it does when you use frequently and a lot. That doesn’t make me an alcoholic or addict. I don’t crave either of those things like addicts do. I crave normalcy, happiness, and calm. For me, I mean. It’s not the same thing.”

“I didn’t know that,” Cross admitted.

And he kind of hated himself for it.

A lot.

Catherine shrugged, and still didn’t turn around. “It is what it is, but it’s better that I know why I do what I do … or did, I guess. It’s not for anyone else around me to worry about, to be honest. They’re not the ones who need to crawl their way out of depression. The tools they have won’t stand me back up again. I do all of that on my own. I learned to do it on my own.”

“Yet, you still choose not to drink, even if you’re not an alcoholic.”

“Drinking is a trigger, much like stress or strange men that smell a certain way.”

Cross frowned into his glass. “Strange men?”

“Men I don’t know.”

“And they have to smell like what, exactly?”

“Like my rapist did.” She looked at him again over her shoulder. Those green eyes of hers burrowing into him, and pinning him in place. “I said no talking, remember? We’re not supposed to be talking, Cross. We were going to skip all of that.”

He grinned around the rim of his glass. “I’m enjoying this, Catty. It’s been a long time. Don’t fault me for it.”

“No more talking,” she said simply.

Cross had a feeling he had gotten all the conversation he was going to get out of Catherine for the moment. Besides, if she was more interested in jumping into his bed for the evening, he was perfectly fine with providing her that.

It was something.

Something between them.

He could work with that.

“Strip,” he murmured.

Catherine’s shoulders stiffened as she turned, and put her back to the windows. “What did you just say?”

“Strip, babe. Take that dress off. Keep the heels. Let your hair down out of that chignon. Show me what’s going on under that dress. You know how this goes.”

She gestured at the windows. “Where everyone can see, huh?”

“The lights are off in here. For the most part, you’ll look like a shadow. A very beautiful, sexy shadow. Don’t act shy, Catherine. It’s not even the tenth time we’ve fucked in front of those windows. You were barely beyond eighteen the first time. Strip.”