She hisses sharply and I try not to notice how her back seems to fit effortlessly against my front. Too late I realize my dick—hard as a rock since she opened her door—is notably pressed against her soft ass. In addition my nose is almost touching her hair, I can smell what I assume is her shampoo, which isn’t helping my condition.
“I think I’m okay now,” she finally says in a raspy voice, as she pulls her hand back. I immediately step out of the way.
“Here, let me do this.” I take the pan she reaches for and finish draining it.
“Thanks. I just need to get the goulash from the oven and then we can eat.”
“Why don’t you sit down, I’ll get the food on the table,” I offer, easing her aside. “Smells amazing.”
“Thanks. It’s my mom’s recipe.”
She’s pouring water in our glasses as I set the pots on the table.
“Is this okay?” I ask her.
“It’s fine. As long as you don’t mind eating from the pot.”
I chuckle at that. If only she knew.
“It’s the only way I know.”
The food is amazing and I’m tempted to undo the button on my new jeans after I’ve cleaned my third helping. The conversation has safely circled around books again, and we’ve discovered neither of us are fans of movies based on books. We agree too much is lost in the transition from paper to screen, but then she asks a question that makes it personal.
“Have you seen any of the movies based on the events of 9/11?” She notes my sudden silence and quickly adds. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be insensitive.”
“You’re not, and I haven’t. I avoid those.”
“I understand. I shouldn’t have brought it up.”
She immediately gets up and starts clearing the dishes.
The mood seems to have shifted and it doesn’t sit well with me. What I like best about Robin is the fact she is what she is, no more and no less. It’s my fault she tenses up and tiptoes around me.
“Robin…” I cover her hand with mine when she reaches to take my plate. When I look up at her I notice how close her face is to mine. “I lost my little sister that day.”
Immediately her eyes well and her free hand lifts to my face in a gesture of comfort I haven’t felt in so long. I can’t help but lean into her touch and watch as her lips form words.
“Oh, Gray, I’m so sorry.”
Chapter Eight
Robin
“She worked as a waitress at Windows on the World.”
I sit down on the chair beside him, putting a hand on his leg and he covers it with his. His eyes are fixed on them.
“What was her name?” I ask gently.
“Reagan.” He opens his mouth, as if to say more, but then closes it again, studying our hands as he slides his fingers around my wrist.
“You don’t have to talk about it,” I offer gently, turning my palm against his and twining our fingers.
“And you?” he asks.
I know what he means, but I’m hesitant to give him the answer. I’m afraid the moment I tell him, he’ll shut down and I’ll have lost the tenuous bond we seem to be forging. I suddenly feel guilty for all the years I’ve gone to the memorial. While I spent time with others grieving over the collective loss, I silently celebrated my freedom. All those lives changed in devastating ways, while for me it meant a new beginning.
It’s the reason I go back alone every year—keep distant from the crowds as much as I can. I come to remind myself to be grateful for the life I’ve made; yet the last thing I want is to offend those who continue to suffer with their loss.
“You don’t need to—”
“My husband. Paige’s father.”
“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice deep and soothing as his thumb strokes the back of my hand.
It’s a comfort I don’t deserve.
Maybe that’s what has me blurt out the truth.
“Don’t be. I’m not.”
I see I’ve shocked him with my declaration. I automatically withdraw my hand from his, but he grabs on at the last second.
“He beat you?” The words come out as a growl.
I’m surprised he immediately goes there, it seems like quite a jump to make.
“God no,” I clarify quickly. “That might’ve left marks.”
I notice his flinch and I immediately press my lips shut. I can’t believe I’ve shared as much as I have. Most people know I lost Rick in the attacks on 9/11, but not even my mother knows what my life had been like leading up to that day.
Shame burns itself on my cheeks and I abruptly stand up from the table, grabbing his plate and walking into the kitchen. I hear his footsteps behind me, but don’t stop rinsing the dishes in the sink. When I turn he’s only a step away, looking down on me.
“I watched you,” he says, his eyes on my mouth, “from across the pond. You looked like light and hope, with your face lifted up to the sun. Something drew me to you and my feet were moving before I realized it.” He reaches his hand to my face, brushing his thumb over my cheek. “You have a very expressive face. It doesn’t lie.”
“Gray…”
His name slides out on a breath. I barely recognize my own voice, my own feelings. This man has me open up doors I’ve had locked tight for so many years. The light brush of his thumb on my skin does more for me than sex with any other man I’ve ever been intimate with. The need to open myself up, share my deepest, darkest secrets is as terrifying as it is liberating, but for now fear holds out.
So I lift up on my toes and press my lips to his.
This isn’t me—so forward and claiming—and yet it is.
I feel him freeze under hands I slide up his chest and loop around his
