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Megan stood by watching, and once his breath steadied, or maybe it steadied because she crept away, he didn’t know, but he straightened himself and started tapping.
It was good to have the privacy to do this. First under the eye, eight taps, then under the nose, then the chin, chest, rib, then he started on the specific pattern on his hands.
He heard sounds coming from the kitchen. Mugs being pulled down. Water from a faucet. The beep of a microwave, heating it all up, and the gentle clink of a tin container, no doubt holding tea.
He could kiss her for it and waited as he felt her presence come back into the room, carrying a tray, which she placed on the foot of the rumpled bed where they had fallen asleep earlier.
“Here.” Her voice still reminded him of summer, but there was a tenderness there that hadn’t been, a sense of connection and deep understanding.
He looked at her hands as he couldn’t bring himself to make eye contact, and he saw a small, rolled washcloth. He took it and felt the cold dampness, a welcome relief, which he wiped over his face and neck, bringing him back to present.
“I made some tea. Would you like to have some with me now?”
Troy nodded and followed her back to the bed, where she took her cup and cradled it in her palms, sipping carefully. She tucked her legs under her and leaned against the headboard, staring into the cup. She must have slipped out of her clothes silently while he was by the window, because instead of her jeans, she had on a light blue robe that looked well-loved with a little ruffle at the edge. Perfectly cozy and appealing as always.
Troy took his own mug and went to sit down on the bed.
“Why don’t you take off your pants? I mean…” Her cheeks were bright pink. “You fell asleep in them with your belt on. It can’t be comfortable.”
Megan was right. As it was, he normally slept in the nude, so maybe that also brought on the trigger.
He pulled off his belt and stripped, letting his pants fall, then pulled off the sweater and shirt he had worn earlier, tossing them carelessly on her desk chair. He still had on a T-shirt, thank God, and his boxer briefs, but the cold felt welcome against his legs.
A low purr at his feet told him Popsicle had arrived to check on him, and Lincoln sat about a foot away, watching him with a slow blink.
He reached down and ran his hand over the soft head before walking over to shut and lock the window, then turned to her.
Troy felt awkward and hated it.
“I’ll be right back.”
Megan watched him and nodded without judgment, but he felt it and tried not to walk in shame as he checked the front door again, looking down when he came back into the room with a paper towel as a pretense.
“You don’t have to lie, and you don’t have to explain.”
Good. He wasn’t interested.
“I’m okay. You don’t need to worry about me.”
He shut his eyes against the shame and forced himself to be present as he picked up the mug of tea and sipped.
It wasn’t the same flavor as before. He couldn’t place it, but was sure it was deliberate. The last thing he wanted was to talk, but he found himself asking her.
“What is it?”
“Chamomile with a little lemon and honey. I’m sorry.”
Troy sipped again and frowned. “Why are you sorry? I almost wrecked your room.”
Looking now, he could see he had knocked a few knick-knacks from the shelf onto the floor. One where his knee probably had been was a large, spikey, purple crystal. No wonder his knee still stung.
“I’m sorry about the candle. I just always read in books and movies that it makes it romantic. I didn’t mean to fall asleep with it. I didn’t realize—”
“It’s fine. It’s not you.”
“No, lots of people may not like it—”
“You’re fine with it. Hell, you’re a firefighter,” he said with a bitterness he hated himself for hearing in his own voice. “Nothing about it scares you.”
