23. Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Three

Anna

I 'm fully prepared to argue. To allow the projection of the anger I feel toward myself to bleed out of me and land all over Toby in the form of crappy words thrown at him.

I'm stewing.

Words hover on the tip of my tongue, ready to spill, when unexpectedly, the bed rises instead of sinking, and the warmth of his presence leaves my side.

This was a huge mistake.

One that's going to make things awkward and difficult until the point at which I have to tell my boss.

What I don't expect … is my heart to sink.

Fall deep and crack just a little bit.

This man is the definition of hot mess, and yet …

I wanted him to stay.

The tears fatten against my cheeks, rolling down and wetting my temples.

But he's my client. My job.

My throat tightens around the emotions, my body curling up to roll onto my side.

Toby is the last person I should want.

Except I'm hit with the coolness along my butt, a slickness between my thighs, and a whole new wave of tears flood my hands.

This is screwed up.

I'm going to lose my job over this.

"Hey, Mama."

I startle, even though the words are hushed, my squeak of surprise squeezing passed the lump in my throat.

"Jeffers," I growl out through my hands. "I told you to leave me alone."

"Uh-huh," he mumbles and the roughness of his calloused fingertips brush against my ankle. "I didn't listen."

I can't help the scoff. It's watery and yet blunt. "Clearly."

Subtly, I wipe at my face yet keep it covered.

"What are you doing?" I ask when he wraps those fingers around my ankle and lifts, my leg going willingly despite my brain screaming not to.

"Making sure I didn't hurt you." His free hand dances across the back of my thigh where he held me, his callouses teasing against my skin.

I don't want to want it.

I don't want my muscle to relax in his hands, or my skin to raise with goosebumps, and I definitely don't want the warmth in my chest at his return.

I can't.

I can't focus on the fact that I didn't want him to leave, and yet, here he is. Cradling me, tending to me.

So instead, I roll my eyes and jerk my leg from his grasp. "I said you didn't hurt me. I'm fine."

Toby huffs and snatches my leg back. "Then quit acting like I kicked your fucking puppy and let me clean you up."

My legs are parted and the tingles of terrycloth grate over my sensitive flesh. "Toby," I squeal. "That's too much!"

His deep chuckle warms my stomach when my back hits the headboard, and I cross my legs against the desire wanting to pool yet again.

"Can you hand over my pants?"

"Nope."

"Why?"

"I like you better when you're naked, Mama."

"Oh my God," I growl, covering my heating face. "You're ridiculous. What happened didn't happen, okay?" I grab the edge of the comforter and tug it free. Draping the white material over my thighs, I shove the corner under my opposite thigh. "It didn't happen."

"We're doing that again, huh?" The lopsided grin on his face screams he's going to do anything but forget this happened.

"Yes," I hiss and shove more of the material beneath my thigh. "I can't lose my job over some … some …"

"Head?"

My cheeks heat. "Yeah. That."

"Oh, c'mon." Toby waggles his brows. "Don't go getting red on me now."

I grit my teeth. "You're the absolute worst."

"I didn't hear any complaints a few minutes ago." The smirk behind his mustache is downright sinful. "Or do you need a reminder?"

I'm desperate for a distraction—and some freaking pants.

How did we even end up in here?

"And stop calling me that." I scowl, though, deep down, I like the nickname way too much.

But his head is tilted away from me, his hair a disheveled mess of attractive waves framing his face. He sniffs, his nostrils flaring with the inhale only a moment before his eyes go wide and he's hopping off the bed.

"Oh, shit."

He runs out of the room, leaving me confused and all alone.

Diving across the bed, I snag my pants from the floor and shove my legs through the material in time for him to call after me from the kitchen.

"Prune!"

I flatten the elastic around my waist and take my time joining the nuisance where he stands at the stove, serving spoon in hand.

Oh, crap. We left the burner on …

God, how careless—

"You're not allergic to anything, right?" I blink against the sudden interruption and automatically shake my head.

"No …"

"Good, here." A bowl is shoved into my chest, a layer of cheese already melting around the edges. "Oh, wait," Toby states, his hand still clasped around the dish I've also got my hands on. My fingertips touch his, the heat of both the man and the meal stirring more crap in my already swirling head. "Is there a texture thing?"

"A … texture …?"

"Yeah," Toby murmurs, his free hand coming to my chin and tipping my head back, his whiskey gold eyes meeting mine. There's a bit of a crinkle at the corner, a softness to his features, and I block them both from my mind. "I mean … is there shit you won't eat or touch because it feels weird."

I shake my head.

"Good." He steals the bowl from me and puts it on the island. "C'mere."

"Why?" I blurt and immediately shake my head at myself. That's not what I meant. "I mean—"

"Mama," Toby enunciates, "come."

Why, oh why, is that so dang appealing.

"I just meant why were you asking me that …" I mumble, joining him.

"Call me observant," he answers dismissively, already peeling back the wrapper on a sleeve of crackers with deft fingers.

Fingers that were—

"Did you wash your hands?"

Toby snorts. "Nope."

The chill that runs over me has my nose crinkling and my lip peeling back. "But you're touching our food."

He huffs, raises a hand to his nose and sniffs. "Smells like the perfect secret ingredient to me."

My hand goes to my rolling stomach, and I swear I feel the color drain from my face because it's all rushing south.

I have no idea how to act to that comment. It's both a turn-on and a trigger that makes me queasy.

The germs …

And yet …

"Anna, I'm kidding."

"What?" My vision fogs, and my breath rushes, as if I'm underwater.

"Anna, look at me." His voice, grating and somehow grounding, draws my eyes right to his chest. I want to look at him. I want to see his eyes, all bright, staring back at me.

But my brain feels like static and my ears feel far away.

"Anna," Toby snaps, commanding, and my eyes to crash against his.

He looks worried.

I don't even see his hands move, but now they're on my face and all I can see is him. His straight nose, his bearded chin, his thick hair.

He's everything that should drive me nuts in the wrong way. The exact opposite of everything that I am.

Unkempt and wild.

"I'm okay."

I don't want him to worry.

"I'm okay," I repeat the words, stronger this time.

I'm supposed to be helping him. Not the other way around. This isn't about me.

"Have you eaten at all today?"

"I'm …" I suck in a deep breath, the tunneling beating back slowly the longer I focus on Toby's furrowed brow and the space between them. "I'm good. I did. I just don't …"

"Like germs." He nods. "I got it."

That's not entirely the truth, but it's the easiest explanation when people question me about my … quirks. I hold myself to a level of unobtainable perfectionism that's coupled with an overachieving and obsessive compulsion to please. That, and the uncanny ability to concern myself with what others might think or say.

Like someone finding out the fingers that were just inside me are now on the communal food packaging, even though no one else is in the cabin.

Or how my weight may be construed as something negative.

The way I dress. The things I say.

I'm not compulsive enough to have a disorder, not afraid enough to have a phobia, nor am I ashamed of my body as it is. And yet, I know that if I don't flatten and fluff my top just right, then the world will only see my larger-than-most stomach. If I don't clean the utensils I used and return them to their original places, then something terrible might happen.

It's not logical, just as it's not linear, either. I'm aware of that.

Which makes me difficult to diagnose.

I chose not to follow through with the back and forth appointments, instead having thrown myself into my work and the reason I chose this profession.

"Two options," Toby murmurs, his sight trained on my lips as he speaks. "Eat the chili, or I eat you. Take your pick, Mama."

"But you just—"

"Mm," he growls and sinks his teeth into his bottom lip. "I could eat that pussy all night long, Mama. Try me."

My face burns with the embarrassment and arousal, and it's all I can do to just wrap my fingers around his wrists. "That won't be necessary."

"Then let's get you something to eat."