Confessions in the Dark (2 page)

Pocketing her phone, she called out, “Hello?”

Another low grumble filtered down to her, clearly not meant for her to have heard. Treading lightly, she took the first couple of steps toward the second floor.

“Is everything all right up there?”

“Brilliant,” the voice said, louder this time. It was a man's voice, deep and rumbly, the edges of the word rippling with just a touch of a British accent. She tried to ignore the way that
did
something to her. Because for all that whoever it was seemed to be striving for disaffectedness, there was a twist to the tone. And the huff that followed, accompanied by a sharp thud, was pained.

She frowned, climbing higher. “Are you sure?”

“I'm
fine
,” the voice stressed.

She hesitated. This person sure didn't seem to want her help. But as she reached the landing between the first and second floors, she spotted something lying on the ground.

A crutch.

She stopped, peering around the corner. The guy was sitting at the top of the next flight, one leg stretched out in front of him. All she could see from here were a blue running shoe and the loose cuff of a pant leg. Darting her gaze between that and the crutch, she bit at her bottom lip, considering.

The smart thing to do right now would probably be to walk away. Bald-faced lie though it might be, this person had effectively rebuffed her twice now. No one would blame her for taking him at his word.

But her heart gave a little pang. She had more than enough experience with people who refused to admit they needed help. She knew what it sounded like when they tried to push her away.

She had to at least
try
.

Setting down her basket on the landing, she picked her way forward. “Okay, well, if you're sure you're fine. I'd hate for somebody to trip on this, though.” All exaggerated movements, she bent to grab the crutch, then finally turned to face its owner.

And nearly swallowed her tongue.

It wasn't that she didn't recognize her third-floor neighbor. She'd seen him in passing a handful of times in the year she'd lived here, and she'd appreciated him in an idle sort of way. But the man had always held himself so tightly, like he was marching off to war every time he went to check his mail.

He was barely holding himself together at all right now. He'd traded out his neat jeans and tailored shirts for sweatpants, and his close-cropped dark hair looked like he'd been raking his hands through it all afternoon. Bruiselike shadows hung beneath the piercing, deep brown of his eyes, and the sharp line of his jaw was dark with stubble. She swallowed hard. It looked delicious, like it would be rough against the palm of her hand, and her throat went dry just looking at it.

Then she had to mess everything up by glancing downward at his mouth. Tilted into a grim line, it was tight and angry. And there, at the top right corner of his lip—the harsh, pale slash of a scar.

He coughed pointedly, calling her out on her staring. Her gaze rose to the angry set of those stormy eyes, and her breath caught.

“Well, then,” he said, tone dry, words sharp. “Do you plan to take it with you?” He nodded toward the crutch in her hands.

“Oh. Right.” Jolting into action, she climbed half the flight of stairs before a remembered warning tickled the back of her mind.

She might've only run into this man in passing, but some of her other neighbors hadn't been so lucky. When she'd been new to the building, there had been vague mutterings about the man in 3A. Mostly, he seemed to keep to himself, rarely coming or going, never accepting invitations. But once or twice...

Well. Suffice it to say that the guys in 3B didn't listen to their music too loudly anymore.

She took a step back, suddenly wary, but the thin thread of the man's patience had apparently run out. With one hand on the banister, he rose to his feet, and Serena's gaze raked him up and down.

Holy crap. His usual clothes fit him well enough, but the tight gray Henley he wore today draped over the dips and curves of lean, pure muscle, highlighting the broad expanse of his chest and shoulders. She had to stop herself from licking her lips at the sight.

But then he rearranged the crutch he'd managed to hold on to, tucking it under his arm, and started to take a single, purposeful step forward.

And almost buckled right in front of her.

“Cocksucking son of a—”

Without thinking, she narrowed her eyes at him. “Language.”

Catching himself between the crutch and the banister, he jerked his head up, mouth agape as he stared at her. “Excuse me?”

A fresh wave of heat washed across her face. Sure, it'd been a while since she'd had the chance to interact with a grown-up who wasn't another teacher or her mom, but scolding a grown man for his cursing was a whole new level of not-smooth. Still, she lifted her chin, planting the foot of his crutch on the ground and bracing her other hand on her hip. Pushing her embarrassment aside the best she could, she shrugged. “I just don't see any need to talk like that.”

“And I bloody fucking well do.” His right leg was held at an odd angle, and he raised it higher as if to make a point.

Oh. Now that she wasn't letting herself be quite so distracted by the rest of his physique, it struck her how loose-fitting his sweatpants were. The offending leg was unnaturally straight, something bulky making the fabric of the pants bunch around mid-thigh. Maybe a brace?

“What happened?” she asked, nodding toward his leg.

“Does it matter?”

“To me it does.”

All at once, something in him seemed to crack. His posture, puffed-up and stiff, crumpled, and he bowed his head. When he looked at her again, pain and fatigue were written across every line of his face, and her heart stuttered.

“Look,” he said, the exhaustion bleeding into his tone. “I understand that you mean well. But I have had a very, very difficult couple of days, and if you would simply hand me my crutch...”

Her mortification only grew. “Oh my goodness, I'm so sorry.” Here she was, practically holding the man's walking aid hostage while she interrogated him. What had she been thinking?

She took the rest of the steps at a jog, but before she passed it to him, she paused. “Wouldn't it be easier without it?”

She'd broken her leg when she was ten, and going down the stairs had always been the worst. Having the banister to hold on to really helped.

“Please.”
The word was hollow and aching, like it cost him so much more than the air in his lungs to get it out. “Simply—”

“No, really,” she insisted. “Isn't that how you lost your balance in the first place?”

He visibly bristled. “I didn't—”

“Then what, did you throw it?” She meant it as a joke, but the pinch to his brow made her wonder if that wasn't exactly how things had gone. She boggled.

Boys. Honestly. It didn't matter how old or how gorgeous they were, or how good they smelled up close like this...

Mentally scolding herself, she leaned away, giving him back the space she'd had no right to barge into. Still gripping his crutch, she glanced toward the landing above them. “Here, let me help you get to your apartment.”

He let out a low, dark laugh. “I'm trying to
leave
my flat.”

Seriously? “To go where?”

“How is this any of your business?”

God, this was one of Penny's episodes all over again. Instinct had her digging in her heels.

She wiggled his crutch at him, all her compunctions about holding the thing hostage bleeding away.

Exhaling a sigh that was pure frustration, he reached for it, but she held it just beyond his reach. Only to gasp in horror when he lunged.

And she saw the whole thing coming a million miles away, but there was no preparing for a couple hundred pounds of male teetering into her. On instinct, she threw herself into his fall, trying to take some of his weight, to shore him up, but he just dragged her down, too.

The next thing she knew, they were both on the ground, draped across the stairs, his body hot and hard above hers, and God, he really did smell incredible. Warm and rich and with a hint of something woodsy mixed in that made her insides melt.

The portion of her insides that weren't being crushed, in any case.

“Oof.” She shoved at him, and he heaved himself away like he'd been burned. Except when his gaze met hers, it wasn't angry or disgusted or anything like that.

It was
hungry
. Deep in her belly and in the points of her breasts, a warmth bloomed, awareness crackling in her skin at how close they still were.

“Shite,” he swore, and okay. Maybe he was a little angry, too.

The desire she could've sworn she'd seen in his eyes faded as he struggled to sit. Propping his leg in front of himself, he raked a hand through his hair. Gingerly, she sat up, too, checking herself over to see if anything smarted or pulled. From the feel of it, she was going to have one heck of a bruise on her hip tomorrow from where she'd landed, but other than that she seemed okay.

She turned to him to find his face twisted away. A curl of dread opened inside her. She reached out a hand, almost stopping herself before she pushed on through, settling her palm on the broad muscle of his shoulder. He flinched but didn't push her off. She sucked in a shaking breath. “Are you all right?”

For a second, she wasn't sure what the sound falling out of him was. Unless— Oh crap, was he
crying
?

But then he shifted to look at her, and no. Not crying. The man was laughing, and the bare hint of a smile on those lips transformed him. For a second, she could scarcely breathe.

Scrubbing a hand over his eyes, he let the laughter trail off. He forced out a long, slow sigh.

“No worse than I was, I suppose.”

With a grin on her own lips, she found herself squeezing his shoulder. Feeling the firm shape of it before she pulled away. “Well, that's something.” Testing the waters between them, she knocked her arm lightly into his. “And, hey, you're three steps closer to making it out of the building.”

“Fantastic.”

They sat there together in silence for a long minute after that before he started making motions to stand. She did likewise, holding out her hand to help him. He gave it a considering look. And, yes, fine, he was clearly a proud sort, but his hesitance was officially ridiculous.

“I won't bite. Promise.”

Finally, he placed his open palm in hers. Tingles ran all the way along her arm at the warm press of broad fingers against her skin, and she swallowed hard as he levered himself to stand. When he let go, she missed the touch immediately. Trying to hide her reaction, she bent to pick up his crutches, passing him the one. He tucked it under his arm, gripping the railing with his other hand.

And he just looked so tired. She chewed at the inside of her lip for a second. There wasn't any harm in offering, was there?

“Hey,” she said. “If you won't let me help you get back to your place, maybe come and sit down in mine for a bit? Take a break.” And it struck her. “Is someone waiting for you outside?” Surely he couldn't drive like this. He had to have somebody coming to get him. “You can call them, or I can go down and tell them...”

A whole new wave of darkness twisted his features. “No. No one. I was...My doctor's office. It's only three stops on the ‘L.'”

Wait. He had to be kidding. “You're planning to take the
train
?” In his condition? When he could barely make it a dozen steps down the stairs? The station was a full two blocks away, and it didn't have an elevator. “No. Absolutely not.”

“It's hardly your concern.” His gaze had softened since they'd taken their little tumble, but it went hard all over again.

“It kind of is now.”

He scoffed. “Hardly.”

But she was weirdly invested at this point. And besides, if he didn't want her helping him, she was looking out for everyone else around him, too. The next person he fell on might not take it so well.

“At least let me call you a cab or something.”

Between her sister and her students, one of the things she'd learned over the years was that sometimes even arguing was a sign you'd already lost. It was time to stop talking and act.

Ignoring the way he sputtered, she grabbed his crutch and started off down the stairs. He'd either follow or he wouldn't.

But at the landing, she slowed. Flipping her hair over her shoulder, she cast a backward glance at him. Cocked a brow and fixed him with a level look.

“Well?” she asked. “Are you coming or not?”

R
outine. For three miserable years now, Cole had clung to it. Early morning runs and cups of tea, weekly visits to the library to catch up on the articles he didn't have access to anymore. Equations worked by lamplight and the same dozen recipes repeated over and over, and all of it he did alone.

When was the last time he'd talked this much? The last time he'd been touched?

A low shiver worked its way through his body, but he breathed through it.

Now here he stood, perched on one leg while the swollen mess of his injured knee throbbed. His shoulders ached from just the hobbling he'd done around the shoebox of his apartment, not to mention the disaster that had been his efforts to leave it thus far.

Fuck, he must've been high as a kite when he'd climbed these stairs the other day. It was all a haze of ambulances and X-rays and narcotics, the diagnosis of a dislocation and a sentence of weeks of immobilization and impeded movements.

And now this woman. This infuriating, nosy, kind, beautiful woman who had overwhelmed him with her efforts to help. He'd made a bloody fool of himself in front of her already. It hadn't been enough that she'd guessed about the fit of pique that'd had him hurling his crutch into the wall. She barged right into his space, surrounding him with the sweet cloud of her scent, and she'd questioned him. Challenged him. Until like a clod he'd lost his balance and taken her down with him, the press of her body beneath his warming him in places he'd been so cold.

Reminding him of pleasures he'd lost. Ones he could never, ever allow himself to have again.

Gripping the railing harder, he narrowed his eyes at her. Mischief danced in those pale green eyes, her invitation practically taunting him, and did she have any idea how close she was to getting burned? His temper—that hot, uncontrollable thing—was too close to the surface already, and he didn't trust it. Didn't trust himself. He hesitated there, muscles coiled, throat tight.

Until finally, with a shrug, she turned away from him, her hair bouncing, loose curls the color of warm gold settling around her shoulders, and his stomach churned.

Helen's hair had been just as brilliant. Just as soft.

And just like Helen had, this woman was asking him in. He was almost ready to take her up on it, even. She paused on the landing to retrieve the laundry basket he'd caused her to abandon, and he gripped the railing harder to keep himself from following after.

This was a terrible idea. But what else was he supposed to do? Even with the insane amount of time he'd allotted himself, his idea of getting to his doctor's office by train had been a fantasy. A taxi was the most logical next option, and the notion of climbing the stairs to his apartment again only to have to descend them when the car arrived made a cold wash of sweat break out on the back of his neck, his shoulders and knee both screaming at him.

It would be fine. He could rest in her apartment for a few minutes before continuing. It wouldn't have to mean anything or break any of the promises he'd made. When he was ready, he'd go. Get in a cab and make it to his appointment and then haul himself back up these steps. There was no reason he had to leave again for at least a week. He could live on leftover birthday cake and bourbon until he could get to the grocer's by himself.

For a long moment, he closed his eyes. Helen's voice in the back of his mind pushed its way to the surface, calming his breath and his stuttering heart. Laughing at him, all warmth and gentle teasing as it asked him what on earth he was so afraid of here.

When he opened his eyes again, it was to stare at the same brown carpeting on the stairs and the same scuffed, green paint on the walls. The only thing changed was his resolve.

Nothing for it.

Gritting his teeth, he fumbled as he hunched to walk the crutch another step down. He shifted his grip on the railing and filled his lungs. Raised his bad leg a fraction higher in the air.

The strain on his shoulders as he pushed off to land on his good leg made him shake, but he clenched his jaw and did it again and again. Slowly but steadily, he made his way to the landing, and damn that woman if it wasn't easier this way, not having to juggle the two crutches at once, being able to use the banister for balance. He kept going, hopping his way around the corner to the next half flight. At the base of it was a spill of light.

And her. She stood in the open door to her flat, leaning against the jamb. As he neared, she stepped forward to hand him his other crutch, and he released his death grip on the railing to accept it.

“Your cab will be here in twenty minutes,” she said. Leaving the door open behind her, she turned to head inside.

A whole different kind of tension gathering behind his eyes, he crossed the landing to peer in after her.

At its essence, her flat was a mirror image of his own. A tiny entryway opened onto a larger living area. A small but serviceable kitchen to the left, most likely, and then a hallway leading off toward the bedrooms and the bath. But it might as well have been a photo negative. She'd painted it all a warm yellow, and the sweet scent he'd caught the barest whiff of in the stairway mixed with something earthy—cinnamon, maybe—and the aftertaste of heat. Like candles that had recently been burned.

Homey. Soft and light. And an emptiness curled inside him sharp enough to cut his fingers on.

Restless, anxious energy crawled beneath his skin, but before he could give in to the instinct to back away, she reappeared from around the corner, popping her head out of the kitchen.

“Come on in, if you like. I can make you a cup of tea?”

Tea. He almost laughed. Back home, it would be insane to offer anything else, but it was so rare here. “Yes,” he said, hobbling forward. He twisted to close the door behind him. “Please.”

“Coming right up.” Her retreating footsteps were followed by the sound of running water and the
click-click-click
of her lighting the stove. When he made it to the doorway, she shooed him away. “Sit.”

He all but collapsed into the closest chair available, an overstuffed thing that welcomed him with a sigh. Shifting one of the pillows she'd piled there out of the way, he leaned back.

“Here.” She'd snuck up on him without his noticing to scoot an ottoman across the floor. Grunting, he lifted his leg and settled it atop the stool, and it was the most comfortable he'd been in days. Maybe years.

His gaze fell on the overflowing basket she must've set down as she'd been calling for his cab. Guilt twisted his stomach. “I'm keeping you from your chores.”

She laughed at him, heading back into the kitchen. “No one will notice if I wear the same skirt three days in a row, will they?”

He would. He craned his neck to follow her with his eyes. If it was the skirt she was wearing today, he
definitely
would. It wasn't obscenely short by any stretch, going nearly all the way to her knees, but the fabric was soft-looking and draped across her thighs, making her calves look shapely and strong. And paired with the thin sweater that hugged her breasts...

Making a noncommittal noise, he turned back around and scowled, digging into his pocket to check the time on his phone. Twenty minutes. He could handle twenty minutes. More like nineteen by now. He settled in to wait in silence.

Ha.

“So,” she said, raising her voice to be heard from the other room, “you avoided my question before about what you did to yourself.”

Of course she'd be back to that again. The way she phrased it got under his skin, and he snorted. “I didn't do it to myself.”

Except he had, hadn't he? Not for the first time since it'd happened, he cursed himself. A moment's hotheadedness, his damn prickly sense of injustice. If he'd ignored them, if he'd just stuck to his routine and not gotten involved...

The back of his throat burned. He never could manage not to get involved, could he? Even as isolated as he was these days, he couldn't seem to look away.

“Did someone do it to you, then?” The bemusement in her tone got to him all over again.

He crossed his arms over his chest. “If you must know, yes.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Well, that sounds like a story.”

One he'd already told to the police. But he clearly wasn't going to be able to avoid telling it again here. “I caught two blokes nicking a backpack.” He shrugged. He didn't have to make it a good story. “The thieves didn't like being confronted.” Or chased down, or tackled. Or nearly punched. He gestured at his knee. “One of them gave me this as a thank-you present.”

“Wow. So you're like a hero, huh?” And it could've been so flippant. But coming from her...it wasn't.

But it should've been. A hero. That was the last thing he was. If she knew...

“Hardly,” he said, and the darkness to his thoughts colored his speech.

After a moment, she cleared her throat. “I don't know. You sound like one to me.”

That was
not
what Serena had been expecting. Her own story of breaking her leg had involved more klutziness than crime-fighting, and she'd figured this man's situation would be much the same. But he'd interrupted a mugging? Something inside her gave a little shiver at the thought.

To keep her breathing even, she focused on arranging the remainder of a bag of Oreos that had been left from Max's last visit on a tray. The kettle gave off the first hint of a whistle and she flipped off the heat, then poured the water into the teapot with the crooked handle that she never got the chance to use. After adding a sampler box of tea to the tray, she carried it all out into her living room. He sat up straighter as she approached.

Damn. He hadn't gotten any less attractive in the handful of minutes she'd been in the other room.

She turned away from him as she set the tray down on her coffee table. “Can I fix you a cup?” She started to rattle off the half-dozen options, but he stopped her on the first one, voice clipped. Frowning, she placed the tea bag in his cup and poured. Leaving it to steep, she settled into the chair opposite his. He seemed more than content to watch the tea brew in silence, even going so far as to pull out his phone.

But she was still way too preoccupied by the whole running-down-a-mugger thing.

Even as his gaze darted toward the screen, she shifted forward, crossing her legs in front of her. “So, are you, like, a cop or something?”

That would be some sort of an explanation, at least.

“What?” The space between his eyes crinkled with what seemed like genuine confusion before he collected himself. “No. Not at all.”

Oh. “A firefighter?” Or a mixed martial artist, maybe?

“I'm—” He cut himself off, a shadow flickering across his features. “I used to be a professor.” He hesitated before adding, “Of mathematics.”

Definitely not a cop, then.

A dozen questions rose to her lips about what on earth a former professor was doing chasing criminals, but then her mind caught on that statement. “Wait, did you say math?”

And there were those lines between his brows again.

“I did.”

Oh hell, this was probably weird, but the question spilled out all the same. “You don't do any tutoring or anything, do you?”

She'd been pestering Max about finding someone for weeks now, but he kept forgetting—or more likely, he was too embarrassed to ask. Her own efforts had come to nothing. So late in the year, all the best people were already booked.

“Tutoring?”

“Super basic stuff.” She stopped, stumbling over herself to explain. “It's for my nephew. He's only in fifth grade, but I'm trying to help him get into a private school for next year. The rest of his grades are great, but he needs to score really high on his entrance exams, and the math stuff is his problem area. I just need to get him caught up. A few hours a week, maybe.”

As she'd been talking, he'd shifted in his chair, his posture going more rigid and his hands tightening against the arms. “Fifth grade.”

She hesitated. “Is that a problem?”

“I...” His jaw flexed, the sharp point of it moving beneath the shadow of his stubble. “Children. I don't have much experience.”

“But you have taught before, right?” Sure, different ages were different, but the principles were the same.

“Adults. College students.”

“Then a ten-year-old should be a piece of cake.”

Protests seemed to form on his lips, discomfort written on every line of him.

So she leapt to the first inducement she could think of. “I can pay you.” Not much. Her own job as a teacher offered all kinds of rewards, but monetary ones weren't really among them.

And then it struck her.

“In services,” she said, perching closer to the edge of her seat. Oh, this was perfect. “I'll call and cancel your cab and take you to the doctor's myself. Wherever you need to go. You're stuck on those crutches for how long?”

“Weeks.”

There was a deer-in-the-headlights element to him, and it probably should have made her slow down, but she pressed her advantage instead.

“You'll need rides all over the place. Doctor's appointments, trips to the grocery store. You name it. A cabbie isn't going to help you get down the stairs, you know.”

At that, he bristled. “I don't need help.” He practically spat the last word.

She waved him off, because who was he kidding. “Tell me it wasn't easier getting down the stairs with only one crutch.”

As if swallowing glass, he narrowed his eyes at her. “I was managing. I don't need charity.”

And there was her trump card. “But it wouldn't be. Not if you helped me. It'd be an even trade.”

That had always been the key with Penny. Make it out like her sister was doing her the favor, allowing her to help.