He put water in her teakettle and teabags in the mugs.

“I don’t know what to say. Other than I’m honored you shared so much with me. And that you’re amazing.”

“I’m not amazing. I’m someone who had some bad shit happen to her. It’s not unique. It doesn’t make me special or amazing. I told you this before.”

“And you were full of shit then too.”

She sighed again, so much emotion in such a simple thing. He knew he had to back off, to let all the stuff she’d said—and the fact that she’d said it—percolate. She needed it, that space. But he wanted so badly to gather her up and take care of her.

“So I have a proposal.”

“Does it involve your cock and any part of my anatomy?”

He grinned at her. “You know me so well. But actually, not this time. Maybe later though. I have several guest rooms. How about you come back to my house. You can use my bathroom to your heart’s content. You can sleep over in one of the spare rooms.”

Wariness warred with exhaustion in her features.

“There are locks. On the doors, I mean. My house has a great security system too. No one can get in without my knowing it. I’ll leave you be. Until the morning anyway. We haven’t had morning sex yet and so, well, when you wake up you can come to me.”

She wanted to say yes. Really badly. Not least of which because she really loved his bathroom and that claw-foot tub looked like heaven on earth.

“I promise to leave you alone.” The kettle whistled and he turned to take care of it and pour the water to steep. “I’ll be there if you want me. But I’ll let you make the choices. Don’t be alone tonight. I’m going to worry about you if you’re not with me. And I know that’s selfish.”

“And manipulative.”

He handed the mug her way. “That too. I want you there. For both of us. But you’re so fucking stubborn you’ll say no, thinking you don’t need it. But you do. And it’s been a hard day and I want you to have it. I want you to sleep tonight knowing I’m just down the hall if you want me. I want you to be in my house when I wake up. I want you to sit at my table and drink coffee with me in the morning. Let me take care of you. Let yourself be taken care of.”

“Why does it matter to you?” She needed to know, though she wasn’t sure how she’d feel when he answered.

“It matters because you matter. I can’t remove your past. I can’t kill anyone to avenge you. I can’t make it better that way. But the thought of you here alone after all the stuff you’ve revealed tonight? After the shit with Gwen and my mother, after what you’ve told me about sleeping alone? It tears me up. Because I care about you and I want you to know you mean something to me. I want you to understand I’d do anything for you, including going back to my house alone if that’s what you need. But I don’t think it is. I think you’ve been alone for so long you think it’s normal. But it’s not. Let someone care about you. Let me fucking help in some way.”

She took the bag out of her mug and sipped. Chamomile would soothe her nerves and her stomach too.

“All right,” she said at last.

He sighed, his shoulders relaxing. “Good. Drink your tea and we can get a bag together for you.” 

He tried to ignore the sound of her in his bathroom. She moved slow, like she’d been in a car accident or something. And he supposed in a sense she had.

He’d brought her to his place. She even let him drive her car. He’d put her bag in the guest room just a few doors down from his. She’d run her fingers over the lock on the back of the door as she’d left the room and his heart broke anew.

He’d urged her to his bathroom, telling her he’d return with a glass of wine in a few minutes, and she’d nodded without saying anything.

For then though, he stood in his hallway, leaning against the wall where pictures of his daughter, of his friends and family hung and felt, in no small amount, like that car had hit him too.

She was damaged and jagged. It was true. No one who lived a life like the one she had could have escaped it without a healthy bit of baggage.

That she was so bold and blunt and brutally honest, even with herself, didn’t make her weak. It made her strong. He wished he knew how to make her see it. But he desperately didn’t want to fuck it up. Didn’t want to make her regret sharing.

She seemed confused—befuddled even—that he hadn’t rejected her. That he wanted to take care of her and hadn’t walked away. The helpless rage of it battered his heart.

Because he loved her.

God help him, he loved her so fucking much it hurt to breathe as he thought about her just on the other side of the door. Holding it together because that’s all she had.

He sucked in a breath and stood taller. He’d be what she never had. He’d love her with the same surety he did everything else. There was nothing but that to be done. He knew he had to be careful not to feel sorry for her, though goddamn, he did in so many ways. But she didn’t want or need pity. His pity would only drive her away, or worse, make her think the reason he wanted her was to fix her.

He tapped on the door. “Ready for wine?” He didn’t go in, though he wanted to. There would be time, later, to dominate her and help her let go of the control she clung to so hard right then. But she needed it for the next little while.

“Sure.”

Her voice was small, but a little better than it had been earlier. He’d take that as a win.

She was in his bathtub, her hair wet, slicked back from her face, leaving her young and vulnerable. “You’re beautiful even without makeup.” He shook his head as he brought the wine to her. “Enjoy it. I’ll be back in a while to see if you want another glass. Just call out if you need me. For anything. I’ll be in my room.”

She let out a shaky sigh as she sipped. “Do you have music?”

“I do. What would you like to hear?”

“Surprise me.”

He bent to kiss the top of her head. “All right.”

“And then . . . you can come back. If you want.”

He tried to remain nonchalant but inside he was celebrating the bit of ground she’d just given up to him.

“Give me a few. I’ll be back.” Always.

She sipped a rather fine glass of red and sighed when Beth Orton began to fill the air.

He wasn’t irresistible enough? He had to like Beth Orton too? How much was a girl supposed to take anyway?

He gave her space. She needed it and he’d known that. For a man like him—so infuriatingly pushy and bossy—to have backed off and let her process had been important.

He came in a few minutes later with a bottle and another glass.

“This okay?”

“I love Beth Orton. Also, this is a very good wine. I should probably get out. The water will be getting cold.” But she made no move to do so.

“I have a pretty big water heater tank. Want me to freshen the water with hot?”

She cracked open an eye. He stood here, his hair tousled, wearing a T-shirt and low-slung sleep pants. He was a thousand kinds of hot. Protective. Dominant.

“You scare me sometimes,” he muttered, though he smiled and ruined the effect. Or rather, made it a million times hotter.

“What have I done to be scary? I mean right now.”

“You look at me and I know you’re thinking stuff. Sometimes it’s stuff that makes me really lucky. Other times I worry for my safety.”

“Keeps you on your toes.” She stood and felt better at the way he took her in. It wasn’t the gaze of a man who felt pity, or that she was damaged goods. His eyes were hungry, lit with appreciation and desire.

He put the wine down and wrapped her in the towel when she stepped out.

“Let me.”

She struggled, taking the towel and stepping back. She’d only just managed to get her control into place. The lure of letting him take over was a lot to get past. But she needed to or she’d fall apart.