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"Oh, you mean like you've done?"
Bod an Donais, is that what she really thinks of me? I grimace, shoving a hand through my hair. "Is that what you think I'm doing? I told you honestly what I could give you and left the decision in your hands."
I feel a touch nauseous when I speak those words, but I need her to understand this is still a temporary arrangement. I won't be here for much longer.
But I get even more nauseous thinking those words.
Erica squeezes her eyes shut, her lips quivering.
"I've upset you again," I say, disheartened by the way my voice has thickened with emotions I shouldn't be feeling. "Forgive me,gràidh?"
She grunts, opening her eyes.
I kneel before her and raise my clasped hands, like I'm about to beg for her forgiveness. Which I am. Upsetting Erica makes me feel like the worst sort ofbod ceann.
She waves for me to get up. "Fine, I forgive you."
I bow my head, a breath rushing out of me. "Thank heaven for that."
Rising, I stumble backward a step, off-balance in too many ways. Then I regain my equilibrium, in body if not in mind, and stride over to an antique chair that sits near the bedside table, dropping onto it.
Erica sinks onto the bed with her feet dangling six inches off the wood floor.
The gulf between us feels much larger than the width of the table.
I brace an elbow on the chair's arm and let my forehead fall onto my palm, pushing my fingers into my hair and spreading them wide. My fingers tighten over my scalp. I can't squeeze sense into my brain, though. Can't control my body either, since my eyes insist on glancing sideways at Erica.
She shifts position to sit cross-legged on the floral bedspread. With her hands on her knees, she taps her fingers in a staccato rhythm and stares at the floorboards. "Are you okay?"
I make a noise that's somewhere between a grunt and a sigh.
Erica rocks on her erse. After a moment, she snatches a brochure from the table and reads it, then slaps it down again.
"You're fashed," I say, "but I don't know why."
"Really."
She unzips her boot and kicks it off. The boot ricochets off my shin, and though I wince, it's not because of the brief pain. Erica is angry, because of me. She kicks off the other boot, sending it sailing.
I bolt upright with my hands latched onto the chair's arms, anticipating another blow, but her boot flies wide to whack down near the bathroom door.
Erica scowls at me. "All I said was I wished we could stay here forever—which is, by the way, a common thing Americans say when we're happy—and you freaked out."
I cross my ankles, uncross them, link my hands, and finally fasten them on my thighs. "I did not freak out."
"Right. I imagine there's a masculine Scottish word for it."
"Erica—"
"Chill out." She tears her socks off, lobbing them toward the dresser. One catches on a drawer handle while the other plops onto the floor. "I am fully aware of the rules, Lachlan."
I heave my body off the chair and scuffle over to her. Kneeling before her yet again, I settle my hands on her thighs. Aye, that bloody stupid need to appease her has gripped me again, and I can't fight it. I slide my hands up and down twice, then curl them over her knees. "I am sorry, for whatever I've done to upset you this time. I seem to have a knack for it.Gràidh, what can I do to make it up to you?"
"Stop calling me that. I'm not yourgràidh. I'm your American fling."
Hearing her speak those words, I experience a strong need to batter something. Instead, I brace my hands on the bed at either side of her hips, straightening them to raise myself so my eyes are now level with hers. Another need grows stronger, erasing my anger.
The need to comfort her.
