I hum in contentment. “Your eyes are so very green. Like a green light. Green means go.”
I step forward unsteadily, finally allowing myself to do something I’ve desperately been wanting to: I stare up into his eyes, examining them with unabashed curiosity and concentration. They’re deep and fiery and so arresting I wonder how anyone can look at him without being reduced to ashes. It’s like staring into the sun.
“Did you know they glow? Especially when you wear green. Do you do that on purpose so I’ll notice?”
He closes his eyes. “Kate. Stop.” His body’s gone completely rigid.
“Stop what?”
My voice is breathy as I continue my hand dance, my fingers stroking a slow perusal down his abs until I hit the waistband of his jeans. I’m very close to his bare skin and all my horny brain can focus on is finding out if it feels as good as I think it will. I go to raise his shirt a little.
Ben’s arm shoots out and he lifts my hand from his waistband, gently placing it back at my side. A lungful of air shudders out of him as he steps back, holding me at arm’s length like he needs to put space between us. Of course, now he chooses to leave room for the Lord.
“You need to get inside and drink some water.” He’s staring up at the ceiling as if searching for something. Come back, eyes.
“Don’t be a spoilsport. I was just admiring the view,” I grumble.
I can barely stand upright anymore—I need to get these heels off like yesterday—and I sag against him, resting my head against his chest. His resulting half-hug embrace envelopes me completely, and for the first time, I appreciate how ideal his size is. He’s the perfect cushion, a comforting pillow of hard and soft. It’s impossible to feel anything but safe and protected in his arms, surrounded on all sides by strength and masculinity. His hand goes to my lower back, tangling in my hair, and I feel his deep intake of breath under my cheek.
He turns back to the lock. In my drunken haze it looks like his hand is shaking, but it’s probably just my swaying vision. My eyesight isn’t exactly reliable right now.
He switches on the lights and I’m nearly blinded. I throw my elbow over my eyes. “Nooo. Too bright.”
He flicks them off, then fumbles around, looking for a lamp, presumably.
“Ahh, home.” I kick off my shoes and throw myself in the direction of my couch but end up whacking my head on the back of the frame instead. It makes a sickening cracking noise. That was graceful.
A table lamp flicks on. “Jesus, Kate, are you okay?”
Ben kneels in front of me, his expression anxious. He reaches behind me, his thumb gently skimming a path along my scalp, searching for a bump. Everywhere he strokes, my skin burns. I want more touching, more of his hand. I nudge my head into his palm like a dog looking for a nuzzle. Real subtle, Kate.
At my movement, he withdraws his hand, returning it to his lap—but before he can, I reach out and grab it, holding it in front of me and inspecting it. His skin feels rough but smooth at the same time, that strange juxtaposition that only a man’s hand can be. I flatten my palm against his.
“Even your hands are huge.” I’m fascinated. I lace my fingers through his and note the pale baby hairs on his knuckles.
He is giving me . . . a Look. Like a mixture of hunger, apprehension, and tense restraint, and as I analyze it, I’m seized by a thought. If I yanked on his arm, he’d end up in my lap. Could I get him to kiss me? Could I kiss him? God knows I’ve thought of almost nothing else for the past week.
I dismiss the idea as quickly as it originates. If Ben ended up on top of me, I’d probably die of suffocation.
Ben breathes out slowly, disconnecting our hands and setting mine in my lap, then heads in the direction of my kitchen. I hear water running, then shut off. When he comes back, he places a glass of water in front of me. “Drink.”
I do as he says, chugging huge gulps like a dehydrated camel.
“Not so fast,” he warns. I slow down, taking delicate sips like the lady I am.
“Now. Do you feel like you’re going to get sick?”
“No,” I respond, deeply offended. “I know how to hold my alcohol.”
Actually, I’m lying. I’d felt a little nauseous on the way home but chalked it up to being carried and all the jostling that came with it—but now that I’m sitting down, the queasiness hasn’t eased. The thought of vomiting in front of Ben is so disturbing I promptly lose my buzz.
He eyes me dubiously, clearly unmoved by my booze-fueled bravado. “Where do you keep a bucket?”
“In my laundry area . . .” I point vaguely down the hall and flop back on the couch, closing my eyes. My head is spinning. My happy-drunk high is wearing off, reality is setting in, and it’s not pretty.
He returns with the plastic bucket and sets it on the coffee table. The couch cushion depresses beside me as he sits down.
“Are you staying? You don’t have to stay.” Please stay.
“I’ll stay for a while, if that’s okay with you.”
“That’d be nice,” I murmur sleepily, not opening my eyes.
He lifts my head slightly and slides a pillow under my cheek. The last thing I remember is the feel of his fingers on my forehead, smoothing my hair back as I drift off.
* * *
I wake up sometime later—minutes, hours? There’s no way to know—groaning as I roll onto my side. As soon as I shift my weight, I know I’m going to be sick. I bolt upright, groping for the bucket.
Ben grabs it first, thrusting it under my chin just as I am forcefully sick. I start to stand but he stops me with a hand to my arm.
“What are you doing? Don’t get up.”
“Bathroom,” I croak.
He helps me up, walking me down the hall with one arm clasped around my waist. When we reach the bathroom, I collapse on the floor in front of the toilet.
I point shakily to the vanity drawers. “Can you . . . hair tie . . .” I rasp out as another wave of nausea hits me. I bend over the bowl, heaving, then flush as soon as humanly possible. I can’t believe Ben is witnessing this.
The weird thing is, I’m both horrified and grateful that he’s here. Ben’s the last person I would choose to see me at my lowest—and make no mistake, it doesn’t get more rock bottom than my bathroom floor. I’ll need to join the Witness Protection Program after this.
On the other hand, who wants to be alone when they’re sick? I’ve always had someone to hold my hair back—my mom, my grandma, any one of a hundred sorority sisters—and it’s one of the most basic human desires, to be taken care of in times of distress.
I can’t decide if I want him to leave or stay. My head pounds with the conflict. And the alcohol. And the couch-induced head injury. So basically, I’m throbbing all over. I am a scalding-hot mess.
He sets the bucket on the floor of my bathtub and I hear him rummaging around in the drawers for a rubber band. I reach my hand out for it blindly but grasp nothing but air.
I startle when I feel his hands in my hair, gently gathering it up and tying it back so the loose strands are out of my face. I say a silent but fervent prayer that I don’t have puke in my hair.
“Thank you,” I breathe, bracing my head on the bowl with an arm.
“You’re welcome.”
I brave a glance up and spot his reflection in the mirror. His face is etched with concern.
“How much did you drink, Kate?” His voice is soft, unaccusing. I’m so mortified I can barely bring myself to answer.
“A few glasses of wine, then some martinis. I don’t really remember how many.”
“You mixed your alcohol.”
I think he’s talking more to himself than to me. I don’t respond.
“When you’re done . . . getting sick, I’ll get you some Advil.”
“Okay,” I whisper weakly. “Actually, you should
go. I’m—you don’t need to—”
“Kate, I’m not leaving.” He is firm.
“You should.” I slither to the floor, the cool tile a welcome pit stop for my throbbing head, and close my eyes.
Chapter 12
Kate. Wake up, let’s get you into bed.”
Someone’s prying me off the floor. I look around, groggy and disoriented. I’m on my bathroom floor. The room is spinning. Ben looms in my vision.
Ben?
“Come on.” He’s lifting me up, his voice cajoling. All at once I come to, remembering with a jolt.
I manage to brush my teeth before he guides me out of the bathroom, and what I see in the mirror nearly makes me keel over: My face is patchy and pale, my hair matted on one side, with smeared mascara-ringed eyes. I’m basically a panda. My degradation is complete.
He leads me into my bedroom and I collapse on the bed in exhaustion.
“Where are your pajamas?”
I eye him warily from my prone position. “Um, I can handle that. Can you leave the room, please?”
He gives me a look. “I wasn’t going to watch you change. I’ll go get you more water and some Advil.” I mutter a thank-you as he pulls the door shut behind him.
I undress and change at warp speed, throwing my defiled work clothes in the corner of my closet and burrowing into my cool sheets. I swipe my fingers under my eyes in a fruitless attempt to make myself look more like a human and less like an endangered species. I’m saying a grateful prayer to the creator of heavenly beds when I hear a soft knock on my door.
“You can come in,” I call, then tunnel deeper into my sheets. Like if I just hide, then none of this ever happened.
Ben walks in holding a glass of water in one hand and a bottle of Advil in the other. He’s also holding the bucket, empty and washed out.
I groan. “You cleaned my vomit.”
“It’s fine.” He sets the water and pills down on the nightstand and the bucket on the floor, and I watch him hesitate for a moment before taking a seat on the edge of the bed.
“It’s not fine. I should probably have a roommate for times like this, huh?” I let out a self-conscious laugh.
“Fine, it was gross. But that’s what friends are for.”
“Friends.” I roll the word around in my mouth like a marble, testing it out. “Is that what we are?”
A shadow skims over his eyes, but he says nothing. He looks resigned.
“You’ll never let me forget this.”
He makes a face, a little V forming between his eyebrows. I’ve started to recognize his expressions, and this one reads: pained.
“You didn’t have to do this,” he says quietly. His hand goes to my forehead again, smoothing the loose hair away from my face. It feels so soothing that a little sigh escapes and my eyelids flutter closed.
“I’m allowed to self-destruct when the last nine months of my life just went down the flippin’ drain.” I laugh bitterly.
“Won’t even curse when you’re drunk. Now that’s commitment.” I hear the smile in his voice and I can picture it perfectly even with my eyes closed: the upturned corners of his mouth, the amused twinkle lighting his eyes.
I reach out for his hand, curling my fingers into his palm. After a brief moment of hesitation, his fingers close around mine. I feel tears pricking at my eyelids, but I will not give in to them. I will not cry in front of Ben. I open them and blink furiously.
“Guess I should have listened to you weeks ago, huh? You warned me I was wasting my time. You told me I was going to fail. Shocker, I wouldn’t listen.”
I hate how pathetic I sound. I hate even more that I’ve proven him right—I’m too idealistic, I take things too personally, I’m fighting losing battles. I tense, waiting for the inevitable I told you so that I’m sure is on the tip of his tongue.
But it never comes. He just sits there, his fingers threaded in my hair, his thumb tracing my palm.
“You didn’t fail. The bill failed.” His voice holds an urgency, like he’s desperate to communicate this to me. “It was bad timing, Kate, that’s all. Maybe I knew it was a long shot. But I don’t know everything.”
“You knew,” I insist, tears clogging my throat. “But then you told me not to give up, and I listened. You made me feel like I could do this. Why did you do that?” My chest burns with the need to cry, and I have to pause briefly to compose myself. “I got my hopes up, and I know better than to hope for something that’s never going to happen.”
I can hear the change in my voice, and I know I’m not talking about the bill anymore. I’m seven years old again and I’m crying myself to sleep because I miss my dad.
There’s a long silence, long enough that I assume he’s not going to respond—and, really, what do I expect him to say? I’m barely making sense at this point. But then, softly—so soft I barely hear it—his voice cuts through the darkness.
“I couldn’t stand to be the one to put this look on your face.”
It takes a second for his words to sink in, but when they do, they slam into my chest, squeeze, twist, and wring me out. It’s the most intimate exchange we’ve ever had—no defensiveness or one-upping, no walls hiding our true feelings. Just Ben, with raw emotions and a vulnerability I’ve never seen from him before.
I don’t know how long we sit there, my hand in his, staring at each other in silence—but the silence eventually becomes another entity entirely, something we can’t ignore, like another person in the room. When he finally looks away, breaking the moment, I feel the loss acutely. It felt like he truly saw me. I wonder if I’ll ever feel that way again.
He gives my hand a firm squeeze and moves to get up. I grip his wrist forcefully, tugging him back down.
“Are you leaving?” For all my waffling earlier, I now have clarity: I am desperate for him to stay.
Uncertainty blankets his face. “I think you’ll be fine now. You’ll wake up with a nasty hangover, but I’m sure you know how to handle that.” He seems to regret his choice of words. “Not that I’m implying you do this all the time or anything.” He closes his eyes briefly and shakes his head.
“Don’t go. Please.”
I’m near tears again. The thought of him leaving makes my loneliness feel overwhelming.
He hesitates. “I can stay if you want me to.”
“I want you to,” I practically beg. The irony isn’t lost on me that I’m now pleading with Ben, my sworn enemy, to spend the night with me—but in this moment I don’t care about our jobs, or our friends, or anything else that would come between us.
I just want him to keep holding my hand.
“Okay,” he says. “I’ll stay.”
* * *
I wake up a couple of times during the night, my sleep marred by restless, tumultuous dreams of Rhett Butler carrying me through a burning pine forest. The first time I stir, Ben is still awake and reading something on his phone, the brightness turned way down. When he notices me watching him, he murmurs for me to go back to sleep.
He’s no longer holding my hand or caressing my hair, and I long for his touch like an addict needing a fix. I’ve gone so long without affectionate human contact, I’ve forgotten how good it feels. How necessary. My hands literally shake with the desire to reach out and touch him, to claim his hand in mine again, but I know how unwise that decision would be. We’ve already blurred our battle lines so much that I have no idea how I’ll face him at work on Monday.
And then I reach out and grab it anyway. If he says anything, I’ll plead drunken insanity.
I tuck his big bear paw between my two palms and pull it over to me, using our hand sandwich and his substantial forearm as my pillow. In my peripheral vision I see his lips curve in a tiny smile, but I close my eyes so if there’s any judgment in his expression, I won’t see it.
My cheek is resting on
his shirt-sweater sleeve and I nearly swoon at the softness. I need to find out the manufacturer of this bewitching garment and write them a gushing love letter. Better yet, I’ll track down the supplier and secure reams of fabric to get a pillow and sheet set made. I’ll wrap myself in this heavenly cocoon every night. The idea of it makes me sigh with pleasure as I drift back to sleep.
The second time I awaken, Ben is asleep. I’m groggy and my head is pounding, but even in my feeble state I recognize the rare opportunity to stare at him unobserved and resist the urge to fall back into my comfortable cloud of sleep. He’s sleeping on top of my bedspread, a respectable distance from me—always the gentleman, which I’m currently finding more annoying than noble. He’s kicked off his shoes and they’re lying haphazardly on the floor, though he’s otherwise fully dressed.
I drag greedy eyes over his profile, exploring the lines and contours of his face up close: his hair, too long and ruffled by the pillow; wide-set cheekbones; his nose with just the slightest ski-jump curve at the end; his mouth, so sharp and expressive in life, relaxed and guileless in the repose of sleep. Those spellbinding eyes—the ones that make me question everything—mercifully hidden beneath his lids. He really has a very nice face.
Nice. I almost laugh. What a ridiculous understatement.
His face is magnificent. Gorgeous, even. Under the cloak of night and darkness, I can admit what I haven’t been willing to: Ben is insanely attractive—especially when he’s not talking.
He has one of those angular jawlines that’s a mesmerizing series of cuts and right angles you only see on movie stars. A portrait artist would beg to sketch his likeness in charcoal. His cheekbones are basically chiseled from stone. It’s the Mount Rushmore of faces.
Meet You in the Middle Page 11