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“I brought you cinnamon rolls.” He went into the kitchen and set them down on the counter and tried to take a breath. That had happened. He wished that it hadn’t. Because that moment had shattered something. Compromised a deal that he had made with himself a long time ago.
Charity Wyatt wasn’t a sex object.
He’d decided that way back when. A protection for both of them. There had been some moments, sure, when he had thought to himself... What would it be like to kiss her? To see her lips swollen from passion, and the wonder in her eyes, because he knew that she’d never experienced it before.
He had, for a moment in time, obsessed about it, truth be told. Her innocence, and what it would be like to be the one to teach her about life’s more carnal delights.
But that was when he’d felt that darker part of himself taking hold. The thing he wanted to keep at bay more than anything. He’d put a stop to it.
Plus, he wasn’t the kind of person who should be introducing anyone to passion, because he didn’t have the necessary emotional tools to deal with the potential fallout of it. That was when he had decided that he had to stop thinking about her that way. Ever. Stop thinking about what she had done with men, what she hadn’t done, what she might look like when she was aroused.
It had been a good thing. Because he really didn’t know women in a context other than a sexual one. He had thrown himself headlong into the joy of physical pleasure when he was fifteen, and he had been consumed by that. Charity was more. She was his friend. And he had made sure that he saw her that way to the best of his ability.
That T-shirt had undone a lot of good intentions.
He heard soft footsteps behind him and she appeared, dressed in her usual long floral dress, with thick woolen tights underneath.
“Thank you,” she said. “For the cinnamon rolls.”
He could see that her face was swollen; could see that she had been crying.
He wanted to take her into his arms and hold her. It was a strange, foreign feeling, but one that was incredibly strong. He couldn’t say that he was used to having those kinds of feelings. Wanting to comfort in that way. And he couldn’t. Not now. It was too dangerous. At the moment it was just too damned dangerous.
“Did I make you cry?”
The thought made his chest feel like it had been run through with rebar.
“No,” she said stubbornly, rubbing at her red nose.
“What did?”
“My dad died, Lachlan. I cry about it sometimes. I didn’t feel well last night because... I dunno. Just some things caught up with me. That’s all.”
“Sweetheart...”
“I already told you not to call me that.”
“Sorry. Doc.”
“That’s better.” She went over to the coffeemaker, and he put his arm out. “I’ll do it.”
“You don’t need to do that.”
“I want to. Let me do this for you. Let me make some coffee for you. Get a cinnamon roll and have a seat.”
“I need to get going. I have appointments in an hour...”
“I know. That’s fine. But let’s get you fueled up and ready to go.”
“You’ve been doing this a lot lately.”
He got the ground coffee out of the cupboard and started to pour a measure of it into the coffee filter. “Well. You need it. And maybe I need it. Because... Because I worry about you. Because I worry about you losing your dad, and this makes me feel better. Okay?”
She sniffed. “Okay.”
“It wasn’t as much fun after you left.”
“Really?” She laughed. “Because I wasn’t actually any fun last night.”
