Page 28 of Protected from Malice
Does it have to be now?
At—I glance at the little clock on the bedside table—three-fifteen in the morning? After an already exhausting and stressful night, when I’m already feeling so fragile the slightest thing could shatter me?
“Eden,” Rafe repeats. “You can talk to me. I won’t judge.” He pauses. “If it’s something you don’t want me to tell Indy, I won’t.”
The gentle way he says it nearly makes me burst into tears.
My eyes burn. My nose stings.
A lump lodges in my throat.
“Not tonight,” I whisper. “I’ll tell you. Just… not tonight.”
Rafe sucks in a sharp breath. His body tenses. On an exhale, he says, “You can tell me anything. Any time.”
I know I can. Even though Rafe and I have never had that kind of relationship—talking about feelings and deep secrets and hopeful dreams—I know I can trust him.
“Tomorrow. Would that be okay? Tonight…”
“You need sleep,” he finishes. Casting a quick glance around the room, his gaze lights on the TV. “We can find a cooking show to put on. Turn the volume down low. Leave the lights on.” Pausing, his brow furrows in thought. “Maybe I could find some tea somewhere. The person working at reception might have a hot water dispenser. I could pay them to get some tea, drop it off here…”
The lump in my throat gets bigger.
I don’t like tea. I think it tastes like potpourri, actually. But the idea that Rafe would go through the effort of trying to find me tea at three in the morning…
And hewouldfind some. Of that, I’m certain. Rafe’s a problem solver at his core. Sharing his emotions? Telling people he cares about them? No. That’s not who he is.
But he shows it in his own way, like the time he tracked down sold-out playoff tickets for Indy’s thirtieth birthday or when he bribed my favorite pizza shop in Boston into making a ranch-pickle pizza for me because I’d been obsessing over trying one for months.
Rafe shifts on the bed, his knee bumping mine.
“Do you want some tea?” he asks. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. “I can call the front desk. I won’t leave to pick it up, but I’m sure I could convince the guy to leave it outside the door.”
As I look at him, I waver between what Ishoulddo—which is insist I’m fine, try to go back to sleep, and hope he gets at least a little rest—and what I really want.
If it were daytime, if I were fully dressed instead of wearing sleep shorts and my old Yale sweatshirt, if I had my metaphorical armor back on and didn’t feel so darn weak and vulnerable, I might go with the first option.
But sitting here on the bed with Rafe in this darkened hotel room, the quiet wrapping around us in a comforting bubble, I find myself asking for the second instead.
“I don’t want tea,” I blurt out.
Rafe blinks at me. “Okay. That’s fine. Do you want some water?” He starts to get off the bed. “We don’t have ice, but we’ve got some bottled water. I could ask the front desk?—”
I grab his arm, tugging him back down. “No. I don’t want water. Or ice.”
His features crease. “Can I get youanything?”
“Well.” My heart skitters.
Why am I so nervous all of a sudden?
It’s not like Rafe is a stranger. I’ve known him for years.
But.
This is different. Itfeelsdifferent.
Not just because of what happened at my house. But because this time, it’s just me and Rafe. No Indy around, no other teammates, just us. Sitting so close together, I can feel the heat of his body radiating into mine. So close I can count the dark bristles on his jaw, if I wanted. So close I could lean over and kiss?—
