And this time, he would be the one out in the cold in a relationship with someone married to the job. It was inevitable. God knew he’d lived through the scenario often enough to see how it would play out. To know the hell that came from trying and failing. He wouldn’t wish that pain on anyone, much less on Rachel.
Now he just had to figure out if he had the courage to back away from the only woman he’d ever truly loved.
***
Catriona curled under the sheet on the bed, hugging a pillow and wishing she had Brandon to hold on to instead. But he was stretched out on the floor on a bedroll with his dog. Either he was being a gentleman or he wasn’t interested.
Regardless, he was definitely restless. Every time thunder shook the ground, he thrashed, then settled again. Good God, how did he ever manage to feel rested, sleeping so sporadically? Sleep deprivation alone could send someone over the edge.
She didn’t know what to do for him. Or if he would even want her help. She was in way over her head here with someone out of her league.
Lightning and thunder flashed and cracked in sync.
Brandon shot upright.
An encore of lightning slashed across his face, revealing a fear and horror that brought tears to her eyes. Before she could stop herself, she’d clambered off the bed and onto the floor beside him. Her arms wrapped around his shoulders and she held on tight. Rocking back and forth, she mumbled soothing words—she had no idea what, but kept on talking until the tension began to leave his body.
A long sigh racked through him. “You can ask.”
“I’m not even sure where to start and I wouldn’t want to say the wrong thing.”
“How about asking what makes me lose my marbles every time a car backfires? What makes it so I can’t sleep through the night?” His voice picked up speed and ferocity, even if he kept his volume under control. The tension crept up his back again. “What makes it so I can’t even get a hard-on, much less make love to a woman?”
Whoa. Just whoa.
She’d asked herself some of those questions, but the last one had caught her by surprise. “Um, I was going to ask what makes you bite your nails? But since you mentioned the rest of that, I’m all ears if you want to talk.”
He shrugged free of her arms—gently but deliberately. “I’ve talked and talked and talked some more to shrinks.”
She leaned to grab her water bottle off the end table and passed it to him. “Sounds as if you think the talk was wasted.”
“It didn’t work, but I had to try if I wanted to end this purgatory of being on medical leave until I get my head on straight again—or don’t. So far I’ve managed to convince them the therapy’s making progress. We’ll see.”
“And your therapy dog?” She prodded carefully, afraid of doing more harm than good.
“I got a great trained free pet.” His smile was dark and strained. “What’s to argue about?”
“She doesn’t help?”
“Of course she does.” He slumped back against the footboard, his arm looped around Harley’s neck. “In my opinion dogs are God’s Prozac. And God’s blood pressure medicine. They’re pretty much the remedy to a lot of things.”
She nudged his shoulder with hers. “Well, don’t tell the drug companies about your theory. You’ll crush them.”
“I take it you agree with me then?” His eyes turned deeper blue, or maybe it was the dark. Or how close together they sat.
Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. She wanted the water bottle.
She wanted him.
Brandon lowered his head… as if he was going… to kiss her. And ohmigod, he was really kissing her. His mouth brushed hers once, twice, then held with a firmness so there was no mistaking his intention. This wasn’t an accidental connection. He palmed her head, his fingers in her hair. She held on to his arms, his thick muscled biceps.
Desire whooshed through her veins until she could have sworn her blood was sweet syrup. And she wanted more. To plaster herself to him until she went into a freakin’ diabetic coma. She’d never been this attracted to a man, ached this much to have him touch her. She wanted him to lay her back on the quilt.
His mouth slid from hers and he angled back. She bit back a whimper of protest. She would not be that girl—needy or pathetic. She would not be the insecure little girl sitting on the sofa while her mother showed her literature on plastic surgery. What kind of parent offered a daughter a boob job and chin implant for her sixteenth birthday?
“Cat, I’m not sure if I’m supposed to apologize or not.” He scooped up the water bottle again and rolled it between his hands as if wondering what to do with them next. “I only know that for the first time in months, I wanted to connect with a person. If I took advantage of our friendship, then I am sorry for that.”
He was apologizing to her for the kiss? Apologizing for wanting to connect with her? The thought that he wanted a relationship with her absolutely rocked her socks—and scared the hell out of her. How could she trust him? Was he only reaching out to her because of his own vulnerable state right now?