Chapter 14

ChapterFourteen

Sadie

Nick spends the entire day in his office. I didn’t see him for breakfast because I missed breakfast, seeing as I spent the entire night tossing and turning. Even though the bed really is comfortable, and the duvet really is heaven, I couldn’t sleep. I tossed and I turned, and I tossed again, listening to the howl of the wind. It was violent, pulsing against the house as snow drummed against the windows. I’d want to find him. I’d wanted to go to him and be with him. Not sexually, just to be with him.

I just hadn’t wanted to be alone.

But I couldn’t bring myself to leave the room, either. So, I tossed, and I turned. I’m not sure what time I actually fell asleep. But it was very early morning.

Since arriving on Nick’s doorstep, my emotions have been all over the place. Emotionally, I’ve experienced more here than I have in the last year.

I’m not just tired. I’m exhausted. So, when I finally fell asleep, I slept. And I slept hard. I didn’t wake until nearly ten in the morning. By that time, Nick had already closed the door to his office.

What did he do in there? Clearly, he works from home. But what kind of job could he possibly have from home? What kind of job provides this house? This life he lives—from home?

I have to ask him.

I have so many questions I want to ask him. I want to know all about him, everything.

After gulping a cup of coffee and downing a piece of toast, I packaged all the goodies I baked into neat little totes before stacking them in the freezer in Nick’s garage. They’d stay fresh that way for Trevor and his family.

Then I baked more.

I really don’t know what to do with myself, and it’s very clear.

Baking keeps me busy. Maybe tomorrow, I’ll read. I’ll curl up and find a good romance book. I’m thinking something Christmassy and sweet. Something that makes me feel the holiday since Mr. Grinch won’t set up a Christmas tree. I really must sway his mind on that. I can’t imagine spending Christmas with no tree, no lights, no glittering bulbs.

The thought is so depressing, it almost hurts.

Nick comes out of his office around five. I’d been itching for the last two hours to go to him. It took all of my self-control and two glasses of wine to stop me. I’m amazed to say that I miss him. I haven’t seen him since last night. Which, after my orgasm, was kind of awkward. I hadn’t known what to say to him. And Nick isn’t a man of words.

He’s quiet.

He’s comfortable in the quiet, I think. But I’m not.

I’d excused myself early to go have a bath because I just couldn’t with the silence. I couldn’t handle the way my gaze continuously found his hands—and I couldn’t cope with knowing that his fingers had been inside me.

I didn’t know what to say to him. I didn’t know how to tell him that I wanted him to do it again. That I wanted him to kiss me.

That I want more than his fingers…

I swallow my groan. My lack of ability to communicate sucks big time. Seeing him now, all I want to do is jump him.

I settle for a smile. “Long day?”

“You can say that.” I don’t ask if he wants a glass of wine. I just pour him one, handing it to him. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” I answer. “What do you do for work?”

“I’m in marketing, online marketing.”

“Do you always work from home?”

He shrugs. “Mostly. I’ll go in if I absolutely must, but I’m usually good to stay home. Most marketing is online, and there’s Zoom for whatever needs a more personal touch. It’s rare that someone demands my presence, and rarer still that I agree to give it.”

“Rare that you agree to give it?”

“I contract myself. If I don’t like the terms of the job, I don’t take it.”

“Must be nice.”

“It is. I worked hard to get where I am.”

“I’d love a job where I could work from home.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. “It’s always been the goal for me.”

“Why?” I’m curious about this man. I want to know why he does the things he does.

“I’m good at marketing. I know people. I know how they think, how they perceive things. I am in marketing, but I generally don’t like people.”

I frown, running my finger along the rim of my wine glass. “Why don’t you like people?”

“They’re nosy, judgmental, and often annoying.”

“Ouch. That’s harsh.”

He chuckles deep and low. “It’s the truth.”

I study him for a long hard moment. “You have a very terrible view of the world, Nick.”

“I have a realistic view of the world, Sunshine. You’re the one whose view is skewed.”

I chew my lip. “Each to their own, I guess. Personally, I don’t want to be unhappy. With a view like yours, you’re bound to be unhappy.”

“I just stick to what I know. And what I like. It works for me.”

“It looks like it’s lonely.” I say, and his eyes narrow but only slightly. It happens fast. And then it’s gone. But I see it. The slip in his emotion. The crack in his calm facade. This man is hurting, and that hurt runs deep. I want to know what it is. What has hurt him. I want to find the root of it, and I want to pull it free like a weed.

I turn away from him to face the crock pot on the opposite counter, opening the lid. I inhale and moan. “I made baked potato soup. I thought with the storm—and I didn’t know when you would finish working, that it would be perfect for tonight.”

“It smells really good.”

“It is really good. It’s my mom’s recipe. And she was a phenomenal cook.”

“She taught you?”

“Yes.”

“She sounds like she was a really good woman.”

My throat feels like it’s a breath away from closing. “She was. She was amazing.”

I toss him a smile over my shoulder that hurts. When it shakes, I hurry to look away again so he can’t see it.

I’m close to tears now. I can feel the salty sting burning the backs of my eyes and I do my best to blink them back. I’m focused on doing that—so focused on banishing my tears, hiding my pain—that I don’t feel him come up behind me until the heat of his body surrounds mine.

“Hey,” he calls gently as his large hands fall on my shoulders. “Don’t do that.”

“What?” I question.

“Hide your pain from me.”

“You want to see my pain?”

“No. I don’t want to see your pain. I don’t ever want to see you hurt, Sadie. But I’d rather you share your pain with me so that I can help you through it then hide it and go at it alone.”

I don’t turn to face him as I ask softly, “Does that mean you’ll share your pain with me?”

He sighs heavily behind me. I feel his breath move my hair, he’s so close to me. If I lean back, I’ll press my body into his—fall into him. I’m certain he would catch me.

“I don’t know how to share my pain,” he admits quietly after a long, still moment.

“You just do it.”

“It’s not that easy.”

“It is,” I argue. “It’s just that easy. Just say it. Say whatever it is, and I’ll listen.”

When he doesn’t respond, but instead offers another heavy sigh, this time I do turn around and at the look in his eyes, the dark, dangerous, he’s been alone for way too long look, I don’t press him.

I move on instinct. I act on drive alone, rising onto my tiptoes, my hands slide up his torso, over his shoulders, and around his neck. I pull him down to me and kiss him. He lets me have control of this kiss, so my lips against his are soft and hesitant and hopeful.

He tastes like coffee and him. He didn’t shave this morning, and the stubble is deliciously sharp against my soft skin. When I break the kiss, I close my eyes as he drops his forehead to mine.

“You don’t have to tell me now. You don’t have to show me anything now. But when you do—when you want to—when you’re ready—I’m here.” That’s all I say as I turn around, pull two bowls from the cupboard, and fill them with baked potato soup. I sprinkle the bacon bits that I fried earlier into the soup with cheese and sour cream. Then I hand him a bowl, grab my wine from the counter, and head for the table.

He follows me silently, his eyes watching me, taking me in, studying me. I try not to be uncomfortable under his scrutiny. Try not to wonder what he sees, but I can’t help it. I want to know what he sees when he looks at me. I want to know what he wants from me.

I wish we met in another less odd way. As crazy and beautifully lovely our story could become if we made it into something more, the reality is that this is not easy. This is bizarre, and there’s no roadmap for this. For us.

I don’t know what we’re doing. I don’t know what we can possibly become. But I know I want more, and that’s terrifying because my life isn’t here. I’m not Mom. I’m not crazy and wild and reckless. I don’t have her Gypsy Soul. As much as I think I would love to just pick up and run away to wherever my heart led me, I’m not sure that I can—or that I would. And that kind of makes me sad.