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92
His bathroom is even bigger than mine.
And when we’re finished showering, he hands me a pair of navy-blue sweats and a soft gray T-shirt, so I won’t have to make the trip back to my room wearing last night’s dress.
As soon as his back is turned, I lift the T-shirt to my face, bury my nose in it, and take a deep inhale. The scent that greets me is as clean and fresh as I expected. But it also carries a hint of the spicy warmth I’ve come to associate only with him. Which is why I’ve already decided I’ll be sleeping in it every night until he returns.
“Not exactly the sort of high fashion you’ve become accustomed to,” he says, tossing a smile over his shoulder. “But it should at least get you back to your room without eliciting raised eyebrows or probing questions.”
“A walk of shame?” I laugh. “Here at Gray Wolf? Why would anyone care?” But just after I’ve said it, I think about Elodie and all the ways she’d use it against me, and I realize it’s a bigger, and even kinder, gesture than I first realized. “And the shoes?” I ask. “Got a pair of ladies’ size sevens lying about?” I poke around inside his enormous walk-in closet and reach for a pair of black boots covered in at least a century’s worth of dust and dirt. “Maybe these?” I shoot Braxton a teasing grin as I dangle the boots before him. “They’re clearly too small for you, so maybe they’ll fit me?”
Braxton slides a clean pair of jeans from a hanger and turns toward me. When he sees the boots I’ve chosen as a joke, his face turns gray as a tombstone. Within a matter of seconds, he’s crossed the room and snatched them right out of my hand.
“Definitely not these.” He makes for the far side of the closet, where he tosses them into the corner. Which, considering how everything in this closet is so deliberately organized and categorized—a place for everything, and everything in its place—it’s weird he’d make such a concerted effort to return the boots to a section clearly reserved for various pieces of sporting equipment.
I stare at his back in confusion, feeling like I accidentally summoned some ancient demon that was better left dormant. “It was just a joke,” I say, my voice wavering slightly. “I didn’t mean—”
“I know.” He’s quick to wave it away. “It’s just, last time I wore those…” He runs a hand over his clean shaven jaw and squints into the past. “Anyway, I guess they remind me of a long-ago event I prefer not to dwell on.”
“So why do you keep them?” I ask.
When he faces me, his gaze is haunted by the torment of something known only to him. “Because I can’t afford to forget,” he says.
I watch as he goes about stepping into his jeans, my gaze catching on the faint circle tattoo in the crook of his arm. “What is that?” I gesture toward the circle within a circle that somehow strikes me as familiar. “What does it mean? I was going to ask you last night, but I guess I got distracted by other things.”
I meant that last bit as a joke, or at least an attempt to lighten the vibe. But it seems to have the opposite effect, as I watch Braxton’s jaw clench and his shoulders grow stiff. “That’s what you call a mistake,” he says, voice edged with grit. “A remnant of my younger, more impulsive days.”
“It looks unfinished.” I start to move toward him, but well before I can reach him, he’s grabbing a sweater from a stack and pulling it over his head.
“Most the time I forget I even have it,” he says, adjusting the V-neck and pulling at the sleeves. And though I may be imagining it, I get the distinct feeling he’s purposely trying to hide the mark from my view.
“Are you aware of how your accent gets really pronounced whenever you’re faced with something you’d rather not talk about?” I pull my towel tighter around me, hugging the T-shirt and sweatpants to my chest, as I watch his gaze slowly lift to meet mine.
“Does it?” he says, speaking in such an exaggerated way he sounds like someone straight out of a Dickens’ novel, and it gets us both laughing.
“Just another one of your tells, I guess.”
There’s a visible shift in Braxton’s expression, a lowering of the brow, a tightening on either side of his mouth. “And what are some of my others,pray tell?” His grin widens at that last bit, and though it’s an undeniably dazzling sight, there’s a starkness lying behind it.
“I don’t think it’s in my best interest to reveal that to you,” I say, then before he has a chance to react, I go about getting dressed.
I roll the waist of the borrowed sweatpants so they hang at my hips, twist the hem on the T-shirt into a small knot at my back, and slip into last night’s heels. When I finish, I turn to find Braxton leaning against a chest of drawers, watching me with a wistful look on his face.
“You’re beautiful,” he says, his voice scratching hoarse, unused. “And smart, and kind, and so incredibly amazing that sometimes…” He pauses, eyes crinkling at the sides. “Sometimes I can’t believe how lucky I am that I met you.”
When I search his gaze, I’m certain he means every word. And though I know we’re still a really long way from saying the L word—I can’t help but wonder if maybe, one day, we’ll get there. And, more importantly, ifI’llget there. I mean, I’ve never come anywhere close to being in love, so it’s kind of hard to imagine.
“I would escort you back to your room,” he says. “But I’m already running late.”
“My apologies,” I say, fluttering my lashes in a flirtatious way. “You know, for making you late.” I tilt my head coyly toward the tangle of pillows and bedsheets.
The ploy works. In an instant, Braxton is standing before me, pulling me into his arms. “Darling, you can make me late anytime,” he says, then kisses me so deeply, so fully, I find myself already mourning his absence while waiting for his return.
He releases me with a sigh and goes in search of a duffel bag for him and a spare Gray Wolf Academy tote for me, so I won’t have to drag my dress through the halls.
I’m about to toss in the diamond swan hair clip, too, when I pause. “Hey,” I say, clip in hand. “I have an idea.”
“Yeah?” He races around the space, filling his arms with the items he’ll need.
