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“Promise, sweetheart.”
He kisses my forehead. Oh God, my knees are weak. At that moment, a knock sounds on the door, and he lets me go to answer it. I climb into bed and curl up. He comes around the corner with the tray, kicking the door shut, and sets it on the table.
“Coffee with cream and sugar?”
“Three spoonfuls, stirred.”
He does as I ask, bringing it to me. My head is thinking serious thoughts, but my eyes are unfortunately traitors and can’t conceptualize that I’m trying to keep it in my pants right now. There’s something about a big, broad, shirtless man bringing me coffee that dumps my mind in the gutter. It’s not helping that I can see the faint outline of his dick through his unfastened pants.
“What?” he asks.
I take the coffee. “Nothing.”
“You’re staring.”
“I like it when you run around after me,” I say. “It would do you good to do a little chasing. I doubt you do that much.”
“What does that mean?”
I shrug, having a sip. “I’m sure you have women chasing you, that’s all.”
His brows furrow and he studies me for a long moment. “Have you ever considered not snarking at me?”
My own brow knots. But I don’t lash out, because he has a point. I’m just so used to the way we banter and fight, where I’m on edge and he’s pushing my buttons. Today, something is different. His energy is quiet.
“Fine,” I say primly. “But you’re not getting away with not talking about Coen.”
“I never said I was.”
“Good. Get your coffee and sit down.”
He’s smiling slightly as he does as I ask. The bed sinks, and he stretches his long legs out. I’m unsure if I should start, but he clears his throat, and I wait.
“There isn’t all that much to say,” he says finally. “Coen had the ‘it factor.’ I got him where I wanted to get him, but it destroyed his mental health and made him miserable.”
I think back to how Coen was when he first appeared on our ranch. Quiet in a grim, slow way that comes from being worn down. I shift sideways, curling against the pillow. He’s in profile, his jaw lightly flexed. A weight sits on his shoulders, bearing down.
“You feel responsible for it,” I say.
His lids flicker.
“I am responsible. As I am for all my clients.”
I could argue with him that he’s just doing his job, but he lets his head lean back, and his eyes flick to the ceiling. The quietness in his energy is sadness, I think. There’s a lot he’s struggling with that I don’t understand. Gently, I reach out and touch his knee. He looks down, then takes my hand. His thumb runs over my knuckles.
“Can I tell you something?” he asks finally.
“Of course.”
Deep down, I’m not sure. Is this going to be awful?
He clears his throat. “About six years ago, I signed Emily-Mae.”
My jaw drops. “The country-pop singer?”
He nods, mouth grim. “Do you remember her speaking about being sexually assaulted a few years ago?”
My stomach jerks, and I think back hard, then shake my head. “No, I don’t.”
