Page 120 of Hurt

She was living in limbo. Every night she fell asleep sprawled out beside Roland, and when she woke in the morning, the man was gone. He liked to rise at an ungodly hour but always left a sludge-like smoothie in the fridge for Willow. She would then spend her day playing and puttering around the house until she went to visit Kurt, prying her brother from Grant’s eagle eyes to get some fresh air.

It was a nice existence, but not sustainable. Willow missed having a purpose. She missed the bar and dancing. She missed being social.

And she was worried.

Her life right now rested on Roland’s whims. For now, he seemed content to have Willow loafing around, but how long would that last? He could already be getting tired of her presence. They had been physical. The kind of physical that was comforting and warm. Strong arms protecting and holding her when she needed them most. A warm body to huddle against when she felt the chill from night creeping in.

It was nice, but it wasn’t enough.

Willow had never considered herself a particularly promiscuous person. After Kurt tried to kill himself the first time and began pushing her away, Willow felt bone-chilling loneliness. For the first time in her life, she looked around and found herself utterly alone. It was a gaping feeling in her soul, a hole she didn’t know what to do with. She spent the first few years sticking whatever she could in the hole to see what would stick—men, women, drugs, alcohol, music, and anything else she could get her hands on. They slipped into place, and for a time, the hole wasn’t as empty. A temporary patch that grew shorter with every sweaty encounter.

But her loneliness was a black hole. It took everything she gave it but never got any smaller. Nothing made it better.

Until Roland came into her life.

That icy stare seared right through Willow and filled her with something she couldn’t describe. Her loneliness abated, and she felt whole again. Roland shouldn’t be a person Willow was drawn to. While he was violent and cold, better suited to solitude and silence, Willow was loud and warm with music in her soul.

And yet, when Willow looked at Roland, she didn’t feel cold or lonely. She felt all the things Roland wasn’t.

Plus, he was hot.

God, was he attractive. Willow noticed it the first time he came into the bar. Before he even cast that freezer burn of a stare at her. His face was angular and hard-edged. His jawline could cut glass. Shirtless, he was perfect. Even the scars on his body were speed bumps, small detours that made you stop and appreciate the lines of his chest and abdomen. Stories written into his skin that he would never tell, which made it all the richer because Willow’s mind could fill in the blanks.

They hadn’t talked about sex. Between the war with the Vega Cabal and Kurt’s recovery, sex had been the last thing on anyone’s minds. But with Kurt beginning to smile again, Willow’s thoughts had turned to the man she had been sharing a bed with.

With all the sneaking skills she possessed, Willow had been stealing glances at Roland as he dressed. She wasn’t very good at it, and an eyeball pressed to the crack in the door wasn’t going to cut it anymore.

Willow wasn’t even sure Roland wanted her. They had been sharing a bed for a few days, and he had never made a move. Never made any indication that he was just as sexually frustrated as Willow.

She knew Roland didn’t have much experience. It was hard to believe that such a lovely man was not constantly badgered by romantic partners.

Roland came home with his usual silence. He stared at Willow and the disaster of his kitchen.

“What are you doing?” he asked mildly.

Between the car and the house, he had removed his jacket and unbuttoned his shirt. Willow felt her brain go slack at the sight of his alabaster neck.

“Cooking your dinner,” she said, trying to stay focused on the sauce she was supposed to be thickening. It didn’t appear to be getting any thicker and, in fact, seemed to be getting waterier with each turn of the spoon.

Roland’s eyebrows raised a fraction. “I could have hired a cook.”

“Obviously,” Willow said, gesturing to the ridiculous amount of money the Weavers seemed to have. “That’s not the point.”

Roland didn’t seem to understand the point, but he contented himself to watch Willow as she swore her way through what was supposed to be an intermediate recipe. The woman who posted it online said it was easy and perfect for after work. Of course, that was after she spent three pages rambling on about her husband’s wisdom tooth surgery required soft foods and was the reason she created this recipe.

The picture showed a Tuscany-inspired pasta with cherry tomatoes, spinach, and a rich cream sauce that was hearty without being decadent. The Campanelli pasta was supposed to be cooked al dente and serve as the perfect vehicle for the sauce, which is the highlight of the dish.

What Willow served was a runny disaster of off-white sauce sliding around a plate of Bow Tie pasta because the grocery store she went to didn’t have Campanelli pasta, and she couldn’t be bothered to go to a different one.

Roland looked down at the plate in front of him.

“It looks good.”

Willow perked up. “There’s supposed to be more spinach, but apparently, it shrinks as you cook it. Who knew?”

Roland sat across his rarely used kitchen table and speared a bowtie pasta dripping with watery sauce. With all the bravery of a man used to facing down violence-hardened gangsters, he took the first bite.

At first, his face was blank. He chewed carefully as if he was trying to ascertain the exact flavors erupting on his palate before commenting on it.