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“I came to you with my eyes wide open, Cat. I knew before I touched you or kissed you or loved you. Give me some credit.”
“So, you’re saying that you’ll be here, waiting for me? Even if I keep fucking other men?”
Her words lash through me. They tear me apart. She’s angry and confused and hurting, and I don’t know what to tell her except the truth. “No. I’m saying that I don’t expect you to overhaul your entire life because some guy you met weeks ago is in love with you.” When my volume rises, I take a deep breath and try to calm myself. “I’m saying that you have time to figure out how you feel aboutme. And that, until you do, I’m not going anywhere.”
“And what if I can’t leave?” she asks.
It would be so easy to lie. It would make things so simple if I just said,I don’t care. But I do.
Catherine is right to be scared. She’s the one having to change her life, or not. The one leaving her friends, her sisters, behind, or not. My life, or at least the everyday routine of it, won’t change that much. If anything, it’ll get better once she’s a fixture in it. “I don’t know.”
The three words don’t anger her more as I was expecting. Instead, they seem to calm her. She swipes at her eyes quickly, as if frustrated. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
Feeling inexplicably detached from her just then, I move closer. “Cat, I won’t tell you what to do.” Using my thumbs, I swipe her errant tears. “You have to make your own decisions. But I’ll be here for you whenever you need me. Okay?”
She stares at me as if I’m a strange contraption she can’t figure out. She doesn’t nod or even acknowledge what I’ve said. Raising her hands, she pulls me closer again.
When our lips meet, I understand that she’s trying to give me something. The kiss is long and deep, and even though she can’t say the words, I think she’s trying to tell me what she wants.
Hooking my hands underneath her, I lift her off the counter. Catherine gasps and clenches her thighs around my waist. “Where are we going?”
“To neck on the sofa until the pizza arrives.”
“Wait!”
I stop at the kitchen entry. Cat uses both her hands to turn my head back to the counter, and then points at the lone beer. “We should take that.”
“Good call.” So, I carry her back and wait for her to pick it up off the counter before moving out again.
Catherine
I’m a mess.
I meant it when I told Aiden that I have been for a long time. But it doesn’t matter how I feel about him, I can’t seem to get over all of my doubts and concerns. And confusion.
Aiden carries me over to the sofa and sits down, careful to avoid my legs as he lowers himself onto the couch. I reposition myself so that I’m draped over his lap. “I’ll bring supplies next time.” I take a sip of the beer and pass it to him.
He looks down at me cautiously. “I was just thinking, if you tell me what to stock up with, I can organize one of those grocery delivery services. I have no idea what someone who cooks routinely would need.”
I don’t tell him not to, or that it’d be a waste of money and perfectly good produce. I say, “Let me write a list for you,” because even if I’m not the one cooking, he needs to take better care of himself. Aiden is the definition of a workhorse. He just grinds and grinds until he’s running on empty and has to resort to drastic caffeine intake to keep going.
The signs of the type of life he lives are all around me. The unused furniture with no dips or hollows from where he routinely sits. The spotless apartment with random bric-a-brac (probably forced upon him by his sisters). The empty fridge. The stack of files and open laptop on his little dining room table where I found him working when I arrived.
And then there’s the man himself. The dark smudges always beneath his eyes. His perpetually crumpled clothes, courtesy of his long workdays. The lean, lanky frame from skipping meals when he gets busy. The slightly haunted look he tried to hide from me when he first opened the door.
There’s a part of me that wants to quit Clementine Lane just so that I can take care of him. I’m a nurturer. A feeder. And Aiden Flint has a severe and chronic case of Overworked Public Servant.
“I followed up with the detectives working the Sascha Sokolov case.”
Aiden’s comment snaps me out of my reverie instantly. My heart makes one frantic leap in my chest. “And?”
“They said they’ve collected some evidence but it’s not solid enough to make an arrest yet.”
“So, nothing.”
“Not necessarily.” He hesitates, clearly weighing how much to tell me. “But it was enough to give them probable cause to have the judge sign off on electronic surveillance.”
