Page 66 of Better Hate than Never

Christopher swallows roughly, his eyes searching mine. “Migraines. The last three appointments I had migraines, so I had to cancel.”

I blink at him, stunned by this admission. The last time Christopher admitted to or, hell, evenspokeabout his migraines was before his parents died.

Gently, I tug my hands from his grip. Like an unspoken choreography, my hands land on his shoulders as his wrap around my hips again. We both jump a little, then settle like a circuit complete, energy humming between us.

“For that to have happened on three different appointments, the chances of that,” I say quietly, my fingertips curling toward the base of his neck, toying with the soft dark licks of hair that hit his collar. “You must get them a lot.”

His hands’ grip flexes on my hips. “I manage fine, Kate.”

It’s a nonanswer that’s answer enough. He’s not even trying to dismiss their frequency, meaning it must be really rough. He’s a pain in my ass, but the thought of him hurting so badly makes me feel sick to my stomach.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

He makes an impatient noise in the back of his throat. “Don’t apologize for something you aren’t responsible for. If anyone should be saying sorry right now, it’s me.”

“Why should you say sorry?”

His palms slip across my lower back, so gentle, as his thumbs graze my waist. “I gave you hell earlier,” he says quietly, “when you showed up today. I didn’t even consider you’d gotten your schedule mixed up instead of messing with me. I forgot—”

“That I have ADHD?” I snort. “Once I stick around more than a few days, it’s impossible to miss, isn’t it?”

His hands glide higher up my back and draw me closer. “Whyhaveyou stuck around, Kate?”

I bite my lip, my fingers curling into his hair at the nape of his neck, softly scraping up into the silky strands. “It’s complicated,” I mutter.

“Tell me,” he says quietly but fiercely, his hands drifting over my back in a lulling, sensual circle.

“Why should I tell you my secrets?” I ask.

He’s quiet for so long, staring up at me, searching my gaze. Finally, he says, his voice rough and hoarse, “Because you know that while I’ve been an ass to you plenty, Kate, I’m safe. You can trust me.”

Our eyes hold as those words sink in. The fearful part of me wants to deny that I somehow know deep down I can trust him, to stop myself from opening my heart to him even a crack. But the brave part of me wants to kick my heart’s doors wide open and run headlong into the notion of a trustworthy Christopher Petruchio and all that’s possible because of it.

“As a gesture of good faith,” he adds, “to prove my point, here’s what I’m prepared to do. When you first came home, and I told you I’d collect payment at a later date, for my silence about what you were up to the night we ran into each other...”

My grip on his shoulders intensifies as I remember how deeply he pissed me off that day, towering over me in the foyer on Thanksgiving and threatening to tell on me. “What about it?”

“Well,” he says quietly, his touch wandering higher, his thumbs sweeping so close to the underside of my breasts. “I’ll surrender that.”

I arch my eyebrows, incapable of hiding my surprise. “Are you serious?”

“Very serious.”

“You’d do that, just because you want to know why I’m here?”

He hesitates. His knees brush my legs as they tighten around me, holding me close. “I want to know, yes. But... mostly I want you to trust me, because your trust matters to me.”

My heart’s pounding. I bite my lip so I won’t smile in pleasure at the warmth his words suffuse through me. Tipping my head, I peer down at him and notice his tie’s loose and crooked. Gently, I straighten the knot, then tighten it a little. “I came home because I wanted to fix things,” I tell his necktie, still fiddling with it, simplyto avoid his eyes. “Because if Jules got away, she could have a place to heal, and if Jules was away, Bea and Jamie could be together without worrying about how it might affect her. If I left Scotland and came here, all of that was possible.”

His hands go still on me. “You came home... for them.”

I smile wryly and meet his gaze. “Yes, Christopher. Hard to believe I could pull my head out of my ass long enough to show up for my family?”

“I wasn’t thinking that.” He bites his lip, his grip firm on my waist. “I just wondered... is there another reason you came, one that was just foryou?”

It’s so tempting to tell him everything, when he holds me this way, when he looks at me like this—Because I was tired and sore and broke and lonely. Because this life I’ve been living that used to fix all my problems started feeling like the source of them. Because it felt so good to feel needed, and even better, knowing I could help.

But I’ve given him more than I ever thought I would, in what I’ve already confessed. That’s enough vulnerability for one day.

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