Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

Esme

I would be embarrassed that a man I barely know is feeding me with a spoon like I’m a stubborn toddler.

But there’s no one here to judge, except Sagan.

Each time I open my mouth to let him spoon some of Cressida’s room-temperature oatmeal and jam into my mouth, I see no judgment or mocking in his eyes.

Only a clinical professionalism, laced with relief.

This is both second nature to him as a nurse, and it’s personal.

I’ve had a few friends in my life. When I went to boarding school in Europe, some of my suitemates and I modeled on the side. We hung out with an array of sparkling, fabulous people.

But that’s all it was. Sparkle and fabulousness. I could count on all those people for fun, but could I phone them in the middle of the night to tell them I’m seeing ghosts?

No. No, I don’t think so.

After my parents’ funeral, once all the estate planning was squared away, I couldn’t stand to be alone at the house anymore. So I returned to Europe to continue modeling. I don’t know why I did it; perhaps I was trying to recapture what I thought were the happiest times in my life. But then one night, I completely broke down.

I could barely function, let alone show up to my modeling jobs. I didn’t know what was wrong with me. I felt weighed down with everything I was trying to put behind me.

I remember phoning up my old boarding school suitemate. I was in tears, and I couldn’t make it stop. My old friend was kind, but so distant. Clearly, I had misjudged our relationship. I’d hung up the phone feeling awkward and more alone than ever.

After that, I came home, shut myself in my room, and didn’t come out for weeks.

Friendships were always so confusing. And then I learned to keep it superficial. Make human interaction about fun and only fun, and not to talk about the creeping sense of dread that I felt every hour of every day of my entire sentient life.

Briar was the best girlfriend I’d ever had, but she was paid. How sad is that? At times, I treated her poorly, subjecting her to my flights of fancy when I had the notion to leave my house. I still cringe when I think about how I stole her car to run off with Sagan that night. I’ve apologized so much that Briar sometimes jokingly answers my calls with “You’re not calling to say you’re sorry about the car, are you?” Instead of “hello.”

Everything about sitting here with Sagan feels like how I felt around Briar. Secure in who I am, but even better. Safer. The safest.

With food in my belly, I feel a little better.

“You took four bites,” Sagan says, holding the spoon aloft.

“I can’t eat more. I’ll vomit.”

“I won’t make you. I’m just saying it out loud to remember how many,” he says.

I give him as much of a smile as I can. “Are you keeping track of my food?”

“Damn straight,” he says, putting the spoon down on the tray and pouring lukewarm tea from a pot into the cup. “Now drink something.”

Never have I felt like I didn’t have a choice. My whole life has been about what I want and what I choose. No one gives me orders—nobody since Grandmother.

I take the cup and swallow the bergamot-scented tea. I must be more thirsty than I realize because I inhale the entire pot, in all of its disappointing lukewarm-ness.

Just then, there’s a knock on the door two seconds before Cressida appears in the doorway. “Oh! Excuse me. Ma’am? Shall I…shall I get Mr. Frye?”

The cook’s gaze volleys between me and the unbuttoned lumberjack—evidently it’s unusual to see me lounging around my bedroom in nothing but a bathrobe, with a stranger sitting alarmingly close by, hovering like a bodyguard.

“You can tell Mr. Frye I’ve finished eating, Cressida. I know he sent you up here to spy on me and to check on Mr. …”

She blinks as she waits for me to use Sagan’s last name. Or maybe she’s surprised to see me up and about.

I look at Sagan, eyebrows raised.

“Fisher,” he supplies.

“Shall I tell Mr. Frye you’ll be downstairs in time for today’s appointment?” the cook asks, eyeing Sagan like she doesn’t trust him as far as she can throw him.

I find myself unable to decide.

“She will be, if she’s not resting,” Sagan says, as if it’s completely normal for a chimney contractor to step in and make such proclamations.

Cressida looks like someone trying to do math well above their pay grade.

“Are you sure everything is alright, ma’am?”

I nod. “I feel better than I’ve felt in ages, Cressida. Thank you.”

The cook takes the tray of partially eaten food and leaves. As her footsteps retreat down the corridor, Sagan closes the heavy door.

My heart skips a beat when the lock clicks into place.

Better be careful with my heart.

The towering man turns toward me with annoyance.

Instantly, I freeze, waiting for a scolding. “What’s wrong? Did I say the wrong thing?”

His heavy brows knit together. “No. Why?”

Sagan’s massive frame once again puts the bed frame through its paces as he sits on the end of my mattress, facing me where I sit cross-legged, a fuzzy throw covering my lap.

“I don’t…I felt like…you looked annoyed with me just now.”

He leans in, and one big hand cups my jaw. I startle at the sensation of his calloused thumb against my chin, barely brushing my bottom lip. I find myself wishing for the slightest movement. To feel a man’s skin against my lips—what does that feel like?

“I was annoyed but not at you. I didn’t want to talk to, look at, or interact with anyone else but you, Esme. I locked the door so we wouldn’t be interrupted again until you’re ready.”

Holy hell.

He locked the door so that we can…

Well, bless my heart. I might simply pass out from the vapors.

Is this happening? I don’t know whether to laugh or scream.

Will I ever be ready to be interrupted again? Not with Sagan around.

The way his hand wraps around my jawline so possessively, I already know I’ll spend the rest of my life chasing this newfound sensation of someone caring for me so intensely. He cares on a bone-deep level.

Sagan lied to get to me. He somehow knew how to handle me. He’s so tender yet fierce all at once. Sagan Fisher is perfect.

And here he is, acting like I can do no wrong. Well, he’s in for a heap of trouble. But for now, he’s made an island for us where only he and I exist.

I want him to kiss me so badly, yet he’s not pulling me toward him. All I want is to get closer to that scent and fill my lungs with him. But he stays right here, with his hand on my face, his liquid brown eyes examining every pore and blemish.

For too long I’ve been unable to communicate with others what I want. Now, it all becomes clear.

My fingers clamor and reach, tugging at his open collar. I pull him down for a kiss. At the last minute, I chicken out, and my lips meet his stubbled cheek.

But I find my courage again and move my lips toward his. Sagan lets go of my jaw and cups the back of my neck.

Our mouths barely brush against each other’s before he lets out a soft curse.

“Shit, this isn’t right.”

He’s so close, I feel his breath waft over my chin.

“Of course it is.”

“You’re not… you’re not OK.”

I stiffen, then back away. I try to force down the knowledge of how wonderful it feels to kiss someone and to be kissed. I don’t want to remember this moment if he thinks…

“You think I’m crazy.”

Sagan shakes his head. “No. No, I don’t like that. You’re clearly going through something, and I don’t know what it is. I don’t want to take advantage of you when you’re unwell.”

I’d love to point out that he’s been calling me baby and good girl, knowing full well that would make anyone feel twisted inside in response to that rugged voice combined with the tall, dark, and dangerous vibe he’s got going on. Not to mention—hello!—we were just in the shower together, both of us naked as jaybirds. In other words, he can’t not be aware that maybe, perhaps, he’s been leading me on?

However, I don’t want to make it true by saying all of that out loud. I fear that bringing up how everything he says and does oozes sexiness in the most inappropriate type of way will somehow cheapen the memory of all of that.

It made the girl inside who was always in the way feel seen. It was the most caring and intimate I’ve ever been with another person. Even if it made me think about sex, it wasn’t sexual. It gave me life.

No. I won’t say it. I don’t want him saying something stupid like he regrets it. Because I don’t. I never will.

“Then why did you lock the door? Why would we need privacy?” Don’t make me spell it out for you that you’re giving mixed signals, Sagan.

The scruffy chin dips down, and Sagan presses his forehead to mine. I won’t melt. I won’t.

And then, Sagan lets out a long, growly sigh that turns my core to absolute lava.

I’m done. Take me to bed or leave me alone, you great, big, brown-eyed bear of a man.

The intercom on the wall crackles, and then Frye’s voice echoes through the room like a football referee. “Madam, is everything all right? Is Mr. Fisher bothering you?”

Instantly, that tender face changes to annoyance. Sagan gets up, marches to the intercom, presses the button, and looks at me pointedly.

“He’s not bothering me.”

“Good girl,” Sagan says, then presses a couple of buttons in a series. The small red light turns off.

“What did you do?”

He shrugs. “Muted it.”

“Huh,” I say, biting my lip. “I never knew I could do that.”

A few seconds later, my phone rings on my bedside table. The screen lights up, telling me Mr. Frye is calling me.

I reach for it, but Sagan beats me to it and silences it, too.

“He’s worried about me,” I say.

Sagan pushes aside the half-open curtain, letting the midday sun flood the room.

“If he was worried, he would never have let you rot away in that bed.”

The way the light hits his ticking jaw as he stares outside could make me wish I kept up my acrylic painting lessons. This man is a work of art.

A perfect, dangerous, sweet work of art who just accused me of letting myself waste my life in bed.

Of course he’s not attracted to me. I’ve read him all wrong. How dare I even assume there’s some potential between someone like him, a man of action and determination, and me, who’s so damn lazy she has to mentally run a marathon just to get up and put on socks?