Page 42 of Rooke
The other voice is harder to make out. Deeper, less inflection. Definitely male. I get up and creep to the door, and then I crack it open and tiptoe out into the hallway. It’s dark, apart from a misshapen chink of light from downstairs, cast upward onto the ceiling.
“Can you just tell her I’m here?”
“Next week, Rooke. She’s completely…well, she’s fucked. Of course she’s fucked. She’s been through some crazy shit, and now she just needs some time to decompress, okay?”
There’s a long pause. The silence is filled with the beating of my heart and the nervous push and pull of my breath.
“No. Actually it’s not okay. I’m seeing her. I will pick you up and physically move you if you don’t get out of the way, Ali.”
“That’s pretty rude!”
“What about me makes you think I’m a polite guy?”
I almost laugh out loud. I thought the same thing about him when we had sex. There’s a thick silence, and I can imagine the look on Ali’s face. She’s not used to anyone standing up to her like this, let alone a guy. She seems to have the ability to strike the fear of god into men, no matter who the hell they are. Rooke Blackheath isn’t a man, though. He’s some sort of myth that no one really believes in until they lay eyes on him for themselves.
I quickly jog down the stairs, ignoring the twinge in my knee every time I hop down a step. Ali looks like she’s just been caught red-handed stealing something. And Rooke…
He’s standing in the doorway. A dusting of snow rests on the shoulders of his worn black leather jacket. He’s so damn tall. I don’t think I’ve ever really appreciated how tall he is until now, with his head nearly scraping the top of the doorjamb. There’s a stack of books pinned against his body under his left arm, and there’s a tray containing takeaway coffee cups in his other hand. How very…normal. Steam rises from the cups, clouding in the entranceway. I look down at his shoes and notice that the deep reddish brown leather is darker at the toes, wet where he’s been walking through the rain and the snow. I can smell him from where I stand on the third step of the stairs—notes of wood and smoke, but fresh. Cold, masculine smells that seem incredibly out of place inside my home.
I notice all of this. I take it all in, scanning the way he’s holding his body weight on his right-hand side, and the creases in his t-shirt, and the way his hat is tilted at an odd angle on his head. I document it all with a fierce intensity, paying attention to every small detail, because I don’t want to look at his face. I don’t want to look him in the eye. I’m terrified. If I do look at him, I don’t know what I’ll do anymore. I don’t know myself well enough anymore to trust my own reactions. This man is going to break me. I’ve been worried sick over him. Worried that he was going to do something stupid and get himself hurt. Now he shows up here, unscathed, looking utterly normal, and I want to throw myself at him.
“Sasha?” Ali says my name disapprovingly. I already know she’s about to urge me back upstairs, away from this situation and any confrontation it might bring. I have no problem looking her in the eye, so I do that, swallowing hard.
“It’s okay, Ali. You can let him in.”
I’m surprised by how firm I sound. I speak in a tone that brooks no argument. Ali must be able to hear this; she holds up her hands, stepping back out of the way. Instead of talking to me, she faces Rooke. “If you upset her, I swear to god and all things holy…”
“Don’t worry. I didn’t come here to cause friction.” He holds out the tray of coffees to Ali. “Yours is the one on the left.”
She gives him a weird, curious look but reaches out and takes the coffee all the same. “I’m not gonna ask how you even knew I was going to be here, let alone how I like my coffee.”
Rooke shrugs, taking a determined, bold step inside the house. “You’re a good friend. That’s how I knew you’d be here. Or rather I knewsomeonewould be here. I honestly have no idea how you take your coffee. It’s just black, no sugar.”
“And the other two?”
“Have a fuckload of whiskey in them.”
“Jesus Christ, she can’t have whiskey. She’s medicated up to her eyeballs.”
I step forward, intervening before Ali can shove him back out the door again. “All right, all right. I won’t drink the coffee. No harm, no foul. Rooke, come with me. Ali, I won’t be long, I promise.” I set off in the direction of the dining room, hurrying through the kitchen, not looking behind me to see if Rooke is even following me. I hold the dining room door open and he sweeps in quickly after me. I close the door, planting my back against it, palms pressed flat against the wood. Rooke stands beside the dining table where we hold book club each week, where he sat and consumed nearly a full cheese board all by himself, and I have no choice now. I have to look at him. I have to see the intention in his eyes.
My heart feels unnaturally swollen inside my chest as our eyes meet. Rooke places the books and the coffees down on the table and then stares at me, unblinking, the fingertips of his left hand braced against the surface of the table. His face is a confusion of emotions. His stubble is almost a full-blown beard right now, and there are shadows under those light brown eyes of his. His mouth is twisted into a half smile, but it’s kind of angry.
“You’re not scowling,” he says quietly.
“Pardon me?”
“Normally when you look at me, you’re scowling.”
“I am not.”
“Okay.” His voice is so deep. It’s the voice of someone years older and years wiser than him. The sound of it makes my palms feel clammy. My throat feels tight all of a sudden.
“You’re just agreeing with me to avoid an argument. I can tell.”
“I am.” His mouth twitches, and a glimmer of that wicked confidence flickers behind his eyes. I hold out my hand, eyeing the coffee he brought. “Are you going to give that to me or not?”
“No.” He shakes his head slightly. “Not if you’re high on pain meds.”
