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I frown, running my finger along the rim of my wine glass. “Why don't you like people?”
“They're nosy, judgmental, and often annoying.”
“Ouch. That's harsh.”
He chuckles deep and low. “It's the truth.”
I study him for a long hard moment. “You have a very terrible view of the world, Nick.”
“I have a realistic view of the world, Sunshine. You're the one whose view is skewed.”
I chew my lip. “Each to their own, I guess. Personally, I don't want to be unhappy. With a view like yours, you're bound to be unhappy.”
“I just stick to what I know. And what I like. It works for me.”
“It looks like it's lonely.” I say, and his eyes narrow but only slightly. It happens fast. And then it’s gone. But I see it. The slip in his emotion. The crack in his calm facade. This man is hurting, and that hurt runs deep. I want to know what it is. What has hurt him. I want to find the root of it, and I want to pull it free like a weed.
I turn away from him to face the crock pot on the opposite counter, opening the lid. I inhale and moan. “I made baked potato soup. I thought with the storm—and I didn't know when you would finish working, that it would be perfect for tonight.”
“It smells really good.”
“Itisreally good. It's my mom's recipe. And she was a phenomenal cook.”
“She taught you?”
“Yes.”
“She sounds like she was a really good woman.”
My throat feels like it’s a breath away from closing. “She was. She was amazing.”
I toss him a smile over my shoulder that hurts. When it shakes, I hurry to look away again so he can’t see it.
I’m close to tears now. I can feel the salty sting burning the backs of my eyes and I do my best to blink them back. I’m focused on doing that—so focused on banishing my tears, hiding my pain—that I don’t feel him come up behind me until the heat of his body surrounds mine.
“Hey,” he calls gently as his large hands fall on my shoulders. “Don't do that.”
“What?” I question.
“Hide your pain from me.”
“You want to see my pain?”
“No. I don't want to see your pain. I don't ever want to see you hurt, Sadie. But I'd rather you share your pain with me so that I can help you through it then hide it and go at it alone.”
I don't turn to face him as I ask softly, “Does that mean you'll share your pain with me?”
He sighs heavily behind me. I feel his breath move my hair, he's so close to me. If I lean back, I'll press my body into his—fall into him. I'm certain he would catch me.
“I don't know how to share my pain,” he admits quietly after a long, still moment.
“You just do it.”
“It's not that easy.”
“It is,” I argue. “It's just that easy. Just say it. Say whatever it is, and I'll listen.”
When he doesn’t respond, but instead offers another heavy sigh, this time I do turn around and at the look in his eyes, the dark, dangerous, he's been alone for way too long look, I don’t press him.
