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Chapter Twenty-Three
Alice
It seems I was right to be worried on the trip. As soon as we got home, Simon rushed off to the hospital, and I haven’t heard from him since. I spent time with his mom and Ivy, introduced them to Waffle, and we hung out the rest of the day.
“Alice Whitman, you are an idiot,” I mutter to myself as I lay the book I was attempting to read on the nightstand beside my bed.
I smooth the covers over my lap, giving my hands something to do as I stare at the wall across from me. I really need a TV in here. But that would be stupid since I won’t be here much longer. Maybe I should venture downstairs and pour a glass of wine, settle in on the couch, and not think about anything going on in my life right now.
I pick my book back up and open it to where I put the bookmark. But my eyes glaze over again as I think about our weekend trip instead. I’ve got it bad. I can admit it. The way a small dimple popped out on his cheek when he grinned at me, the brush of his hand against mine, how patient he was to wander around with Waffle and me as we visited the pet shop, vet, and groomer. It is all imprinted on my mind, and I think about it every chance I get.
Yep, I should definitely get that wine.
I crawl out from underneath my warm covers and throw a thin robe over my sleep cami and shorts. After putting on my slippers, I wrap my arms around myself and start down the stairs. I stop abruptly in the doorway of the kitchen when a large, dark shape materializes at the counter in front of me.
“Simon?” I ask hesitantly.
There’s no light on in here, and I only have the soft glow of the appliance clocks to see by, so I’m praying like hell it’s him and not an intruder. I instantly regret not taking a self-defense class sooner.
“Yeah, it’s me,” he says.
I breathe deeply, relief flooding my body when I hear the familiar timbre of his voice. I hear glass hit the countertop and realize he must have made himself a drink.
“Why are you in the dark?”
I hit the switch to turn on the lights underneath the overhanging cabinets, and a soft glow fills the kitchen, showing Simon standing with his hands on the island, hunched over a glass of dark liquid. He looks worn out and maybe even upset.
“Just got home. It’s been a long day.”
“Is everything okay?” I pull my robe tighter around me as I cross to his side.
He doesn’t answer me, so I touch his arm lightly. He doesn’t pull back, so I wait.
“I’m fine. Nothing is wrong,” he says, finally moving and picking his glass up.
He steps away from me, and I back up, too, feeling like I might have encroached on his personal space and he didn’t appreciate it.
“Oh, all right. Good. Do you want some company? I came down for some wine.” I move to the fridge and pull out a bottle of pinot grigio before grabbing a glass. He’s quiet while I pour my drink. “It’s fine if you don’t. I just thought I would ask before heading back up to my room.”
“No, I think I’m heading to bed too,” he says.
I nod and then turn to put the bottle away. “Okay. Well, good night,” I say, giving him a little wave as I grab my wine and head toward the stairs.
What a strange encounter. Why was he standing in a completely dark kitchen, hunched over a drink, in the first place? Was it really because of his long day? I wish that we didn’t feel so closed off again. Something about Seattle opened him up. I felt like I was seeing the real Simon, the one who was free to feel things, but now, he’s back to his grumpy self.
“Good night,” he says as soon as my foot lands on the first step.
I pause, wanting so badly to turn around, but I make myself continue up to my room. I don’t think I can put myself out there and get crushed when he tells me it was just a fling. I know it was a fling, but my heart wants it to be something more.
I take my robe off and throw it down. Then, I run my fingers through my hair. I need to put it up, get it off my back, but I can’t find a hair tie. I step into the bathroom and sift through my makeup bag. Finally locating one, I slip it onto my wrist.
I almost scream when I move back into the room because Simon is standing there, dead center, staring at the place where I was sitting in bed only ten minutes ago. The covers are rumpled, where I pushed them back to get up, and the robe that I just took off is thrown haphazardly over the end of the bed.
“God, Simon. You scared me. What are you doing?” I hiss at him, pressing one hand against my breastbone, trying to calm my racing heart.
He pivots to look at me. I watch his jaw flex as he works it back and forth. He has one hand shoved in his pants pocket and the other grasping his glass. My eyes focus in on it. Once he notices me looking at it, he moves to set it beside mine on the nightstand. He still hasn’t said anything to me.
“Can I help you with something?” I prompt again.
