Confessions in the Dark Read online

  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, hol
ding 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?”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Routine. 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...