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“Okay,” she says simply. “Then I'm asking.”
“I’m alone because being with people,” I pause, considering. “I think when I'm around people, they're uncomfortable.”
Her face screws into a mask of confusion. “People are uncomfortable around you? Why?”
Does she really not get it?
Does she not see my face? My hand? The burns?
“Sadie,” I say her name roughly. I'm not sure if I'm annoyed. She's acting oblivious to something that's been so important to me. So engraved in my every day. Something that haunts me every minute, so insistent, there has been no reprieve.It's pissing me off.
“Nick,” she returns. “You're not that mean. I know you think you are, but you're not. So, this excuse that you make people uncomfortable is actually just bullshit.”
I lean forward in the chair, placing my wine on the table between us. I clasp my hands between my knees, dipping my head between my shoulders. I can feel agitation burning in my chest. She's not stupid. She's not a stupid woman. But she's acting stupid right now.
I have a hard time with stupid.
Slowly, quietly, I demand, “Do you see my face, Sadie?”
“Yes,” she says simply. “I think you have a beautiful face.”
My chest compresses. I almost can’t breathe.
It’s a miracle I’m able to speak. “Do you see the scars?”
“Of course, I see your scars.”
I lift my head, my eyes pinning hers and she gasps. I'm not sure what she sees in my eyes—the anger? Maybe the frustration? The regret, the hate?
“These scars mark me from my face to mid-thigh on my left side. They're not pretty. They're not for the faint of stomach.”
“Whatever, Nick.” She rolls her eyes.
I’m stunned. Fucking stunned. And I’m pissed. “Excuse me?”
It's her turn to lean forward. Her glass meets mine on the table and she kicks off her blanket to stand. There's a brave determination that fills her eyes and sets her face as she moves toward me. When she lowers her body to her knees between mine, my body reacts in a shockingly physical way. Desire, unlike anything I've ever felt in my life, feasts on me from limb to limb. It’s so strong, so insistent, it almost hurts.
She tips her head back to look up into my face, into my eyes. Her mouth is soft, her eyes tender. She shocks me more when she lifts her hand and flattens it against the left side of my face—against my burns. I search her eyes for disgust but see none.I’m drowning in whiskey.
“You are not ugly, and you do not make people uncomfortable.” Her touch is warm. So warm and so soft.I want more.“Youdo not makemeuncomfortable.”
“You told me yourself; I make you uncomfortable.” It takes all the strength I have inside my body not to lean forward and claim her mouth—her—as mine.
Her brows knit and her lips twist into a pout I feel in my dick. She shakes her head, confused, and then realization settles in. In my office, when she brought me cookies.
“I never said you make me uncomfortable. I said you make me nervous. And you do.”
“What's the difference?” I ask, needing her answer like I need my next breath.
Her lips part, and she’s so close, I think I can almost taste her. Would she taste as sweet as she smells? Like the Christmas cookies she bakes?
“The difference is I want to be around you. The difference is that—” She pauses, and her face flushes red. I feel her hand start to pull away, so I catch it with mine, covering it with mine. Her tongue darts out to wet her lips. “The difference is that I don’t want to leave when the storm ends.”
“Then stay.”
ChapterTen
Sadie
