47. Resa

Chapter 47

Resa

I t's late, and I'm tired, but I have plans.

Yawning into my hand, I pad downstairs in a pair of pink silk PJs, hair down, relaxed and more than ready to sleep.

Garrison is in his usual seat, elbow on one knee, with his dark hair brushing his forehead, bending over a puzzle.

"Still not gone in the fire, huh?" I ask as I cross the room.

"Not yet. Every day the temptation grows stronger." He lifts his head, and his gaze briefly heats at the sight of my wildly overpriced silk pajamas.

Garrison Brewster, I'm learning, has more self-restraint than just about any alpha I've ever met. He might want me, but he knows how to keep his hands to himself.

I climb into my usual seat and wiggle around to get comfortable. "You've nearly finished the blues."

His expression is wry as he scratches his chiseled jaw. "Correction. I'm taking my time with the blues to avoid tackling the purple pieces, all of which look identical."

I check out the pile of purples and wince. "Who the hell made this?"

"Someone with no sympathy for people who don't want to go cross-eyed. Please save me." Garrison's dry voice provokes a smile.

I pick up the few remaining blue pieces. "I'll help with the blues, but you're on your own with those cross-eye inducing purples. And that, unless I'm mistaken, sounded a lot like a joke. Are you hiding a sense of humor?"

"Of course not. Lex says I'm crusty. I think he means I'm old. Possibly senile."

My smile grows as I slot a puzzle piece in. "I bet you know exactly what he means."

"He's young and I'm ancient." He blows out a heavy breath. "Sometimes he sends me texts that take ten minutes to decipher."

I laugh. "Like what?"

He fishes his cell phone from his pocket, presses a couple of buttons and flips it to show me a text heavy on the emojis and light on the words.

I scan the text about a software problem Lex resolved. "What don't you get?"

"If you can start from the beginning…"

I grin. "Have you told him to dial back on the emojis?"

"He sends me another as indecipherable as the last. And a crying face. I'm not sure if that means he's sorry or if he's crying with laughter."

"Crying with laughter." I point. "See, it's rolling on its side."

He sighs, tucking his phone away. "That's what I thought. My phobia must be emojis, and I'm cursed with an assistant who prefers texts to phone calls."

"You could ask him to stop," I suggest.

"I could."

But he won't. He's surprisingly flexible for an alpha. Often willing to be the one who bends. The more I see of Garrison Brewster, the more I'm convinced there isn't a predatory alpha lurking beneath the surface.

"Resa?"

I shake my head. "Nothing. Anyway, your phobia, at least, makes sense. I'm terrified of balloons."

His brow lifts. " Balloons ?"

"My parents took me to a fair once. You'd have thought it would be the middle-aged men with painted faces wanting to invade my personal space that would have me screaming. But nope. It was the balloons." I shudder. "The way they squeak and the thought of touching one…" I shudder again. "I just can't."

"What about the flamingo float?" A line forms between his brow. "Should I move it?"

I shake my head, surprised he isn't laughing at such an irrational fear. That he is, in fact, enabling it. What exactly do I think a balloon is going to do to me? Squeak me to death? "It's not the same. Not sure why."

Garrison studies me without blinking for several seconds.

"Uh, Garrison?" I wave my hand in front of his face to break whatever weird trance he's in.

"Globophobia," he says thoughtfully.

"Globo- what ?"

"It's not irrational. It's a genuine fear of balloons."

I stare at him. "You made that up."

"No." He brings out his phone again. A few taps later and he hands it over. "Here."

It's a dictionary definition of the word.

Globophobia: the intense fear of balloons

He's right. He's actually right.

"It's a thing," I breathe. "I always thought I was crazy for being more afraid of the balloons than the clown."

I pull my eyes off the phone and lean over to hand it back. From the air traveling down the front of my top, I shouldn't have worn these pjs anywhere but my room. They are gaping. Badly .

But Garrison has his eyes firmly fixed on my face. Another surprise.

"You are…" I struggle to find the word that accurately describes him.

"I'm what?" Garrison prompts.

I shuffle back in my seat so I'm no longer giving him a bird's-eye view down the front of my top. "Different." I think. "You were bookish, weren't you?"

"What makes you think that?"

"Only someone who swallowed a dictionary would know something like that."

"Wrong."

"How?"

"Game shows. You, too, can learn a multitude of useless facts by staying up late and watching Jeopardy." I smile as he shakes his head. "You understand why Lex calls me crusty."

"You're not crusty or ancient." He feels like the right age to me. "Lex uses an obscene amount of emojis. It took me far longer to decipher than I'd ever admit."

"I'm glad you think so."

I cock my head. "Why did you say it like that?"

"Like what?"

My eyes narrow. "There was an emphasis on you."

"Was there?" His expression is innocent. Too innocent.

Wood crackles in the fireplace as we study each other.

"Do you ever get lonely down here?" I blurt out and hold my breath.

After two thoughtful moments, he nods. "But I haven't felt that way in some time now."

He's not saying what I think he's saying. Is he?

Forming the words feels like a Herculean task with the dryness in my throat. "When did things change?"

"On the day Vaughn texted to say he was bringing home a pretty guest, and the moment I saw her, I knew I would do whatever it took to make her happy."

My nails dig into the fabric of the armchair as I struggle to summon a response. "Oh."

Good job with that public speaking, Resa. You're making real progress.

His smile is faint. "But I didn't realize how much she would give back to me."

I feign casualness. "You mean the fear that one day she'll have tossed your puzzle into the fire or stabbed you with the knife she keeps on her bedside table?"

His smile fades. "I focused on business and on work. Suddenly years had passed, and along the way I forgot how to dream."

"What did you dream about before?"

"You."

For a second, all I can hear is the sound of my heart pounding loudly in my head. Garrison is looking at me, probably waiting for a response. And I… I just don't know.

I jump to my feet, scattering the puzzle pieces in my lap everywhere. I bend to pick them and remember how badly my top gapes. Then I back up, my ass bouncing on the edge of the armchair as I retreat. "Uh, bye."

And I run away, leaving puzzle pieces on the floor and Garrison gazing up at me, probably thinking I've lost my mind.

I gallop up the stairs, into my room, and slam the door shut. I'm not sure what I'm running from: my thoughts, feelings, Garrison, or all of the above.

Because Garrison is not an alpha I'm used to. He's kind, funny, and handsome. Disarmingly so.

Knock, knock.

My feet leave the floor as my heart lodges in my throat.

"Resa?"

Shit, it's him. I clear my throat and try for casual, which he won't buy with the way I just sprinted up the stairs. "Yeah?"

"I wanted to check you got upstairs okay."

Did he think something would happen to me on the stairs?

Then I remember what happened the last time I jumped out of my chair that fast. I wound up in a clinic, terrified I was losing my baby.

"I'm okay," I say with my hand on my belly.

Thoughtful. He is also thoughtful.

"Good. I'll see you in the morning. Goodnight."

"Goodnight," I say faintly. Then I cross over to my bed and flop face first onto it, only rolling over when it gets hard to breathe.

I stare up at the ceiling and imagine Garrison sat beside the fire, peering into the distance as he daydreams about me.