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“You love that spot, don’t you?” she asked as she turned. “Yes, you do smell spice, and I’m freezing. Want to eat in the living room?” He collected the bowls from her, his expression slightly puzzled.
“Thanks.” She centered herself in the familiar role of hardened jokester. “Just for that I’ll pour you a cup of tea.”
~
Grant’s gut twisted as he sat. Melinda had hunched her shoulders—in pain?—and then had straightened her spine and gotten back to work. Things had gone too far for him to keep quiet anymore. She’s a prisoner because I brought her here. He burned to unburden himself and achieve, if not absolution, at least acceptance.
They settled in front of the fire with tea mugs and bowls of cold cereal. It was another rich, flavorful meal, and he wondered distantly how she did it every time. He wished he could experience her cooking outside of this entrapment. He wished he could experience who she really was.
Grant’s chewing competed with his thoughts for volume in his mind.
“Why the heck didn’t I warm this up?” she asked, just as he said, “I know you don’t want—”
They both smiled and he bowed his head toward her.
“We’d be warmer if I had.” She smiled lightly, thought completed, expression caged. “Your turn.”
Grant sighed. “I know you don’t want to hear it, Melinda, but I’m sorry about how this happened. I don’t know how I could’ve thought you were someone else, and I don’t know how I could have—” He rubbed his hand across his face and forced out the words. “How I could have thought you were just being dramatic.” He glanced at her, sick with aching for forgiveness and knowing he deserved none. “While you were begging for help.” The shame of the truth clung to his mouth, reluctant to reveal itself.
“You’ve been so resilient with the stress.” He cut the air with his hand to encompass the blizzard, the lack of amenities, the lack of freedom. “You’re even cooking for me. And last night...last night, you...” Grant raised his head to look at her. She watched him with an unreadable expression, not eating.
“I don’t know if you lost your mind last night, or felt like you had to do that to protect yourself, or what. I don’t know what that was for you.” He took a breath. If she was listening he was damn well going to make himself spit it out. “Last night meant something to me, and it’s okay if it didn’t mean anything to you. I understand if it was just a...reaction to all this pressure. But I want you to know that I think you are pretty damn amazing. And I want to thank you for sharing more of yourself with me,” he finished lamely. Had he really just thanked her for sex? He wanted to bellow with frustration.
There was no way to apologize for what an ass he was, to ask if she had had sex willingly, and to thank her for trusting him with her body, if that had been what she had done. There was no way to logically do any of this. Grant searched her face. What was she thinking? Were his fears correct? Was she following his plot instead of her own and responding to his attraction? Was she feeling manipulated into liking him, and even worse, into sleeping with him? Was she even looking at him anymore?
Grant looked at her sideways.
No, she wasn’t. Her face had gone blank. Limp hands held her half-eaten bowl of cereal.
Suddenly Melinda jerked to life, looked past him, and stood abruptly.
Then she left him, not pausing as she placed her bowl on the kitchen island and walked into the bedroom, closing the door behind her.
~
Melinda sat cross-legged on the millionaire mastermind’s bed and tried not to hyperventilate. Grant’s friend’s bed, the man who loved his girlfriend so much he healed her pain with a yearly adventure to celebrate her strength.
Melinda’s ragged breaths fogged and dissipated in the freezing bedroom. She snorted. No, she wouldn’t hyperventilate, she’d die of hypothermia. But the cold contained her, hardened the edges of her body so she couldn’t explode into a thousand pieces.
Get it together.She was being ridiculous. Why had she fled the scene like a lunatic? Her lip curled. Because he’s sentimental and weird. It must have been even longer for him since he hooked up with someone.
Steam bloomed from her short laugh.
Shut up! Melinda screamed at her inner harpy, her relentless distraction from real life, from real pain and real emotions. The truth was that Grant had bared his soul to her and she’d panicked and run. A man wanted her and she had almost literally run away. Did she not want to find a partner, to settle down and . . . have a baby or something? She laughed bitterly at the reference to instincts she barely understood.
Melinda hugged her knees against the frozen ache in her chest. What was wrong with her? Why didn’t she connect with that life? Was she as broken as her mother? Why didn’t she want to accept the affection of a man that she knew she had feelings for? Confused feelings, but feelings nonetheless.
Because connection scares you to death, the voice inside answered. She squeezed her eyes shut with her face against her knees. Any connection at all. Real connection meant no more false fronts, no more hiding behind her computer screen and proclaiming audacity but practicing fear. Melinda cracked open an eye and grimaced at the room. The room did not grimace back.
“This sucks,” she spat. It sucked to be a chicken cowering behind a wall.
So what was she going to do about it? Did she climb the wall? Did chickens even climb walls?
She didn’t laugh this time, tired as she was of her mind making light of her culpability. It was all well and good to scale this boundary and jump into a relationship—or situation—with this man.
Because it was only a matter of time before she poisoned it. Not with infidelity or cruelty, but with her overpowering instinct to hide from anything real. Like every single relationship with those she already loved. Like with her family.
Melinda tightened her arms around her knees to hold the recriminations at bay.
