Confessions in the Dark (5 page)

A low chuckle rang out from behind her. Had she ever heard him laugh before? “Too many degrees will do that to you.”

He wasn't kidding. She uncrossed her arms to reach toward one of the rows of books, sliding a fingertip along the tops of them. The titles ran the gamut from calculus to field theory, and just trying to read some of them threatened to give her hives.

Her brows drew together as she moved on to the next shelf, though. Volumes of history and poetry took over where the mathematics texts left off. They weren't coffee table books, either. She tugged at the spine of one about the Napoleonic wars and opened it to find too-dense type staring back at her, notes scrawled in the margins in a delicate hand. “What on earth did you get all those degrees in?”

China clinked from the next room over, a bitten-off curse chasing it, followed by a heavy beat of silence. Oh hell, she'd probably overstepped again.

But then his answer came, just loud enough to carry. “Not all of them were mine.”

Oh. Her heart gave a little flutter, and she shut the volume before easing it back into place. “Right.”

She surveyed the rest of the shelves without comment, a picture beginning to form in her mind, but it wasn't one she knew how to put into words. The academic texts transitioned to lighter fare, novels, science fiction mingling with romances and classics. Hemingway and Austen and the Brontës. Finally, she turned away, her gaze sliding over a plain brown leather couch, half covered in books and papers. A pair of folded reading glasses perched atop a sleek, modern laptop.

And there, through the open doorway into the kitchen, Cole.

What the bloody hell did Cole think he was doing? He'd endured this woman's meddling all afternoon because it had been the simplest way to get to his appointment. Because she was beautiful and interesting, and if there was anything he couldn't seem to resist, it was the chance to get himself burned.

But it had all been with the knowledge that he'd be able to retreat. To return to the sanctuary of his home, to be alone.

Until he'd asked her in.

He stood there, fist clenched around the handle of the teapot his brother-in-law, Barry, had given them nearly a decade ago, gaze locked with Serena's from across the length of his apartment. She was touching Helen's books, was standing in this space where he never invited anyone, and he could scarcely breathe.

He wanted to cross the room to her and pick her up in his arms. Feel her body pressed to his the way he had by accident twice now, but with purpose this time. Wanted to taste the sweetness of those full, pink lips and get his hands beneath that maddening skirt, wanted to
have
her. It had been so long.

He wanted to be
able
to do that. To throw these infernal crutches away and stand tall on his own. Self-sufficient and independent, needing no one and nothing.

He wanted her to leave.

Ribs creaking with the force of his exhalation, he set the teapot down before he shattered it.

Tea. He could focus on tea.

Blanking his mind to everything else, he managed to get the little tin of Earl Grey from the cupboard without losing his balance or dropping a crutch. By the time he'd scooped the leaves into the strainer in the pot, the kettle had started to rattle. He busied himself with getting down saucers and cups.

And nearly dropped one when Serena was suddenly there, leaning against the counter, too close and not close enough, and his focus was shot. It'd been shot since he'd fucked everything up with his knee, since he'd met her. Maybe since years and years before.

Then she moved closer, and his bones trembled. “That's a pretty pot.”

“Thank you,” he said, all sharpness. “It was a gift.”

“May I?”

He nodded, and she reached past him, arm brushing his side. With nearly the amount of care he himself tried to take, she lifted it by the handle, tilting it as she examined the spout. Raised it higher to inspect the bottom without spilling the leaves.

“Hand thrown.” She set it back down.

“Oh?”

“You can tell from the signature. And from the gesture marks. The ridges on the inside.” She shrugged. “I used to dabble in ceramics.”

Maybe more than dabbling, based on how she talked about it.

And it was so banal, wasn't it? Having this sort of idle conversation as they waited for the water to boil. So
normal
. So far beyond his experience it ached. Like a muscle he hadn't had occasion to really work in too long.

He struggled to follow the thread of it all the same. “Used to?”

“Haven't had time to take a class in ages. There's just so much going on, you know?”

He didn't. He hadn't the slightest hint of a clue.

The bewilderment in his expression must have shown, because she faltered. “Just...work and looking after Max, and I do some volunteer stuff, too.”

“Of course.” So she was one of those. He should've figured. Always running around, always busy. It exhausted him just thinking about it.

And yet he'd been one of them, too, back ages ago. Before he'd cocked it all up. And now he was here, puttering, playing with equations and writing papers that no one would ever read.
Useless
.

The bubbling in the kettle rose to a higher pitch, the first piercing cry of the whistle blaring. Relieved for the distraction, he flipped the heat off, then reached for a mitt to pour.

Serena waved him off. “I can do this part. Unless there's some secret to it?”

He shook his head and stepped aside. While she dealt with the water, he looked around the barren expanse of his kitchen. She'd offered him biscuits that afternoon, but he had nothing of the sort. Only—

“Cake,” he said, and his throat threatened to close.

She set the kettle back on the burner, brows drawing together. “Excuse me?”

“I have cake. If you'd like some.” Neither of them had had supper, so she'd probably decline. Everything would be fine.

Except a soft, perfect smile stole over her lips. “I have never in my life said no to cake.”

Right. He turned toward the fridge where he had stowed it for the sake of the icing, hobbling his way over there and hauling the door open with one hand but then stopping, a fresh wave of cursing ringing out in his head.

And it burned, but there wasn't any real way around it. “I can't...”

“I've got it.” She reached in for the platter, balancing it with two hands the way he couldn't right now and taking it over to the sad little table by the window. She gestured with her head toward the chair already pulled out. “Here, sit.”

He should've protested. Should've tried to at least do what he could. But a sudden wave of exhaustion crashed over him, the throbbing of his knee joining a growing ache behind his eyes and in his heart. He fell into the chair with a heavy thud, and it was only her presence that had him stacking his crutches against the edge of the table instead of hurling them to the ground.

“Wait. Is this...” She trailed off, staring at the candle he'd left in the center of the cake. Black wick burned down to the barest hint of a nub, wax frozen down the side mid-drip. “Was it your birthday?”

“No.” Jagged glass littered his mouth, grated his larynx, and sliced ribbons from his lungs.

“Then why—”

“It was my wife's.”

He stared at the candle. The one he'd snuffed out with his breath. With his own bloody hands. And then at this woman and her golden hair and her kind, pitying eyes.

His knee screamed at him as he shoved the chair back. He rose to his feet regardless, pitched with all his weight to one side, and his face flashed cold, but his chest was a mass of fire and ancient, impossible regret.

He couldn't do this.

“Cole—” She edged away from him. Good. She should. Eyes wide, pupils blank, she stared at him.

“I think it's time for you to leave.”

H
ey.” Serena's mom peeked her head out of the fridge where she'd been stowing some leftovers for Serena from dinner the night before. “Whatever happened to that tutor Max said you found for him?”

Serena sighed under her breath, stealing a glance at Max, who was packing his schoolbag. He'd spent the afternoon with her the way he did most days when he didn't have Little League and she didn't have any after-school meetings or clubs to supervise. Serena's mom was just stopping in for a minute on her way through to pick him up. And of course she would have to ask about that.

What had Serena been thinking, introducing Cole and Max so quickly? It had only been a few minutes' interaction, but it had apparently made quite the impression on her nephew. He'd gone from being reluctant about the whole tutoring thing to asking about it every time he saw Serena, and now he'd started bringing it up to her mother, too.

“I don't know,” Serena said, hedging. Nearly a week had passed since he'd kicked her out of his apartment. All she'd done was ask him about the birthday cake that
he
had offered
her
.

The birthday cake for his
wife
.

And it wasn't even as if she hadn't seen that one coming. No way that entire book collection had all been his. Clearly, at some point, there had been a woman in his life, and it was even more clear that there wasn't one anymore. He hadn't worn a ring, and there hadn't been so much as a hint of a woman's touch to anything else in that apartment.

She hadn't anticipated the way just mentioning her would make him shut down, though. Whether she'd died or divorced him, there was a no-go zone about a mile wide around the entire subject. A wound that hadn't even begun to heal.

And here Serena had thought they'd had a moment.

Her mom frowned. “I thought you wanted him to work with someone before he took that entrance exam.”

“I do.” She'd stopped by Upton the other day to pick up a fresh study guide and to drop off some cookies for the secretaries—store-bought but no one needed to know that. She was going to get Max into that school, come hell or high water.

Even if it meant swallowing her pride.

Serena made up her mind. “I'll ask him about it. Today.”

“All right.” Her mom didn't exactly sound confident.

In the other room, Max made a show of zipping his bag. “Okay! I'm ready.”

Serena met him at the door, ducking down to go through their ritual. A secret handshake and a giant hug that stole the breath from her. “See you tomorrow, tiger.”

When she let him go, he flipped the lock and started bounding down the stairs.

“Wait for me at the mailboxes,” her mother called after him.

“I know!”

Her mom held up in the doorway, turning back to her and lowering her voice. “I didn't want to ask in front of him, but have you talked to your sister recently?”

Serena's stomach sank to her toes. “No.” But they only talked every now and then, anyway. “Is something wrong?”

“I don't know. She's just been sounding...unhappy.”

Serena couldn't remember a time she did seem happy. Still, if it was enough to have her mother concerned...“What are we talking about here? Full red alert?”

They hadn't had one of those in ages, and Serena had been this close to relaxing, to believing that they'd finally gotten past that kind of thing. But the longer the good patches lasted, the more uneasy she felt. Getting complacent usually meant it was time for everything to go wrong.

Her mom shook her head. “No, nothing like that. Just...if you do talk to her...”

Serena sighed. “I'll see if I can't get the scoop.”

“You're an angel.” She rose onto her toes to plant a kiss to Serena's forehead.

Serena closed her eyes and soaked it in.

They said their goodbyes before Max could get too restless downstairs and make a break for it. As Serena closed the door behind her mother, she surveyed her apartment, tempted to get to work tidying the mess Max had left. Or sorting out tomorrow's lesson plan, or figuring out her volunteer schedule for the rest of the month or checking her e-mail or...well...anything, basically.

But she'd promised her mom. She'd promised Max, effectively.
Cole
had promised Max, and no matter how much he'd upset her, nobody got away with disappointing her kid.

Besides, for all that she'd been avoiding him this past week, there was this part of her that wanted more than anything to see him. Sure, he was moody and standoffish and cursed like a sailor. But he was also gorgeous and smart, and even the accidental touches they'd shared had fired off sparks. Whether or not it led anywhere, that had to be worth at least seeing the man again.

Decided, she nodded to herself and grabbed her keys.

Still, at the top of the stairs, she hesitated. She stood in front of Cole's door, staring at the number to his apartment until the twisting mess of anticipation and dread in her belly began to squirm. Ugh, this was ridiculous. Put up or shut up. Rolling her eyes at herself, she balled her hand in a fist and knocked.

Only to be met by the muted sound of yet more creative swear words from within. The clatter that followed them was a little more ominous, but presently the thumping sounds of crutches on hardwood carried toward her. She took a single step back as the labored footfalls approached the door, folding her hands in front of herself and adopting the most neutral expression she could manage.

He let her stand there like that for what felt like forever. She gazed right into the peephole, cocking one brow. God, his avoidance issues were even worse than hers.

“I know you're there,” she called out. “I could hear your crutches.”

A dull thud of an impact echoed through the door, and she swallowed a chuckle, imagining him banging his head against the wood. The lock released with a metal-on-metal click, and then he was shuffling backward as he pulled the door open.

Serena frowned. He...looked like hell, honestly. Deep bruises of exhaustion shadowed his eyes, and his hair was mussed, his face pale. The same loose sweats he'd been wearing the last time she'd seen him hung off his hip bones, and—

Oh, Jesus. She all but swallowed her tongue, any thoughts she might've had rolling around in her head fading to a hissing, popping sort of static.

He wasn't wearing a shirt.

How the heck she'd managed to notice his eyes or his hair or his anything else was a mystery for the ages. Miles of smooth skin stared back at her, the dips and ridges of abdominals and pectorals. Deep black, rolling lines of ink set into perfectly toned flesh, and her mouth went dry with the embarrassment of riches laid out before her. She had to squeeze her own hands, biting her nails into her palms against the impulse to reach out. To touch.

He cleared his throat, and her gaze shot back to his face. Tired though they were, his eyes were sharp. The hard muscles of his arms and shoulders tightened, his knuckles white on the handles of his crutches.

“Well?”

Well. She'd come here for a reason, hadn't she? One beyond trying to read the band of letters and symbols around his biceps, mapping the nautical star across his heart or the lines that curved beneath his ribs.

“Um...”

“Yes?” And there was an edge of irritation to his voice now.

It helped to pierce the haze that had fogged her thoughts. A little. Enough. Shaking her head, she blinked a couple of times.

Focus.

“Hi,” she said, and she still sounded like an idiot, but at least she was an idiot making actual words with her mouth.

A ghost of a smile teased at his lips, highlighting the pale line of his scar. Making the faintest hints of dimples show through the stubble on his cheeks. “Hello.”

She dug her nails into the heels of her hands even harder. “I...um...I came here because...” Why was she here? Oh! Right. “Tutoring.”

His brows rose on his forehead. “Yes?”

“My nephew. Max.” She might be managing words, but sentences were another thing entirely. She both wished he'd go put on a shirt already and prayed he never, ever would. “You promised you'd help him. With math.”

His spine straightened at that, and even with her brain cells scrambled, a part of her reared up, too. Braced and ready for a fight.

But instead of issuing a sharp remark, he sighed. “So I did.”

The ready agreement almost shocked the words right back out of her. But she rallied, somehow. “Great.” She opened her mouth, prepared to start rattling off their schedules, but before she could, he interrupted.

“How's tomorrow afternoon? Three-thirty?”

“That's...” She snapped her jaw shut. “Perfect, actually.”

“Brilliant.” He flashed her a tight smile.

And without another word, he closed the door in her face.

The next day at 3:25, Cole stood at the door to his apartment, jaw clenched, crutches propped against the wall. On so many levels, he didn't know what the fuck he thought he was doing. But there was nothing else for it. Sucking in a breath, he shifted just ever so slightly forward.

The first tentative fraction of his weight he put on his bad leg was only a dull pang, so he gave it some more. Edged forward, more and more. Until—

“Cocksucking son of a goat fucker with
leprosy
.”

A sharp jolt shot all the way up his leg, and he listed sideways, barely catching himself against the wall. The coppery tang of blood seeped into his mouth. He sagged, catching his breath and closing his eyes.

Apparently, a full step without his crutches was still a little ways off.

His doctor had told him it'd be a week, at least, and he'd let that week pass, suffering it and the claustrophobia and the weight of his indolence in silence. So much silence, pressing in on his ribs and lungs, and he'd never minded it before.

He did now, though.

Opening his eyes again, he reached for his crutches and got them settled under his arms. The test hadn't been a complete waste at least. Bracing himself, he leaned hard into his hands as he took his first supported step forward.

It still drove the breath from his body to put even that much of his weight on his knee, but it was bearable. He crossed a few more feet of floor, slow and aching. It would do.

Grabbing the bag he'd set down by the door, he rearranged his crutches to get the strap slung across his chest. With a deep breath, he threw the door open, and even the sight of the dingy hallway was its own kind of relief.

It was the first time he'd left his apartment in a week.

For a moment, he breathed in the air beyond his four little walls. A hysterical echo of a laugh bubbled up in his lungs. All those years he'd spent locked away in there of his own volition, and now that his movements were restricted, leaving it felt like escaping from a prison. Like freedom.

Like descending down into his own little bowel of hell.

He tightened his grip on the handles of his crutches.

He'd almost started to think Serena had forgotten him. The first day they'd met, she had shoved her way into his life, and he'd invited her to help herself to even more. Right until the moment it had all become too much. Overwhelmed, unable to breathe, haunted by another woman's voice and another moment when he'd lost himself, lost the thread of his control...

His chuckle this time tore at his throat, a dark and ugly sound. He'd asked Serena to leave, never expecting her to return. But she had. She'd come to him and reminded him of what he'd promised.

He'd thought of the boy in her charge and the challenge in his eyes. Of his own reflection staring back at him in a mirror, lip bleeding, knuckles bruised, the memory of how it had all happened in a blur.

He'd remembered the warmth of Serena's hand on his skin.

Pulse pounding, he closed the door behind himself.

The trek down the stairs pulled at his shoulders nearly as badly as it had the last time, though at least it was easier to keep his balance now. Two long flights, and when he finally alit on the landing outside Serena's door, he drew in a long, shuddering breath. He gave himself to the count of ten to get his bearings. Then, before he could talk himself out of it, he knocked on her door.

The person who answered it wasn't Serena.

“Hello,” Cole said, drawing back.

“Aunt Rena. Mr. Cole's here.” Max looked back over his shoulder into the apartment.

Serena's voice floated out to them. “Well, don't just leave him standing there.”

Apparently, that was the signal the boy had been waiting for. He opened the door wide, abandoning it to scamper back inside. Cole peeked around the edge of the frame before hobbling in.

Nothing about the place had changed in the past week, except that a small hurricane might have torn through the middle of the living room. Standing from where she must've been kneeling on the floor, Serena pushed the soft, golden strands of her hair back from her face and turned to him with a sheepish smile. “Sorry for the mess. Ten-year-olds, you know?”

Cole didn't, but he nodded all the same. “Not a problem.”

“Max, what do you say we move this operation to the kitchen?”

“Okay.” Max grabbed a book and a pencil from the pile of detritus around her coffee table, only to be yanked right back. He accepted the additional packet of papers Serena pressed into his hands before heading off toward the kitchen.

She shook her head at his retreating back, but it was all fondness. “Wouldn't remember his head if it wasn't attached.” She looked up, and her gaze met Cole's.

And they were still the whole length of the room away from each other, but the distance stretched and then yawned and then snapped, and heat shivered through his bones.

One afternoon. He'd spent all of one afternoon with this woman before avoiding her for a week, and just seeing her made it feel like something in his chest clicking back into place. The intensity of it staggered him, almost too much again and not nearly enough. He could have drowned in the mere sight of her for days.