Page 21 of Into These Eyes

His grin widens as he takes the second to last wedge and returns to the toaster. The moment it pops, he slathers on butter, then scrapings of Vegemite, before he brings it over and takes a piece for himself. “Eat up. Plenty of vitamin B there for you.”

Before I even take my second bite, he heads over to the fridge and pulls out some bacon and a carton of eggs.

As I watch him grab a frying pan and utensils, I realise he’s made himself familiar with my kitchen while I’ve been asleep.

As long as he hasn’t done the same thing with my nightstand, I’m surprisingly fine with it.

“How do you know all this?” I ask. “When’s the last time you had a hangover?”

“I’m sure you know the answer to that,” he replies as he places bacon in the frying pan. “And I know all this from the internet.”

“Oh.” I pop the last bite of toast in my mouth and work up my courage as I chew. “What happened last night?”

He meets my eyes, and I see a hint of worry there. Great. I definitely humiliated myself. I suppose, if I’m going to help him clear his name, I’d better know how.

“Where would you like me to start?” he asks, flipping the bacon.

“From the moment you saw me.”

As he starts frying the eggs, he tells me everything from the phone call in the middle of the night to getting me comfortable in bed.

He makes it all sound so civilised and normal, even when he reveals he stayed because he was worried I might choke on my own vomit.

But I know he’s giving me the highly abridged version, and I need all the details.

When he serves up a plate of bacon and eggs for each of us, I choose my words carefully. “When I changed, there was … an item of clothing missing. What happened there?”

He keeps his gaze firmly on his plate, but the knife and fork in his hands are motionless, and when I glance at his face, he’s blushing.

Oh shit.

“It’s nothing you need to worry about,” he says.

“Which makes it sound like it is.”

He lets out a sigh, lowers his utensils and meets my eyes. “You could barely stand and were busting for the toilet. So I … helped. And thankfully you were wearing a dress, so I didn’t see anything.”

As awkward and humiliating as it is for me right now, I can only imagine what it must have been like for him.

“Sorry,” I mumble before staring at my own plate.

“Well, no reason to be.”

We eat in silence until I’ve devoured every last morsel on my plate.

Then, as he takes the dirty dishes over to the dishwasher, he asks, “How about some coffee? I couldn’t quite figure out how to use that contraption.”

“Good idea.” Missing my morning coffee is probably half the reason I can’t quite shake this headache.

Slipping off the barstool, I make my way around the breakfast bar and get the coffee machine going.

When it starts to fill the first mug, I turn to watch him stack the dishwasher. And notice a smudge on his neck.

On autopilot, having done a similar thing a million times when Anika was younger, I reach toward him. He freezes in the middle of closing the dishwasher door, and I hesitate.

“You’ve got something …” I touch my thumb to his skin and rub, trying to clean away the dark smudge. When my attempt fails, I stare. It’s not a smudge at all. It’s a bruise. Or more accurately, a hickey.

“I … I’m sorry, I thought it was …” I let my words trail away when I realise what that bruise on his neck means. It hadn’t been there yesterday, when I left his caravan.

As the colour in my face deepens, so does his, but his gaze remains unwavering.

“Oh,” I say. “I’m so sorry. I interrupted you last night.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“But, you were with someone.” I imagine a faceless woman latched onto his neck in the throes of passion, then the phone call interrupting them.

I turn back to the coffee machine, trying to distract myself from the ugly feeling in my stomach.

What do I care if Gavin Lake has a girlfriend, or whatever she may be?

“The only person I was with last night, was you.”

I whirl around, my breath catching. “Are you trying to tell me I did that?”

He tilts his head slightly and shrugs his broad shoulders. “That’s what happened.”

“I would never—”

“Well, I wouldn’t know about that, but I do happen to remember what happened last night.”

As the coffee machine falls silent, we stare at each other while I try to will my useless memory into a movie that’ll explain what I can’t even comprehend. I had my lips on Gavin Lake’s neck? I sucked on his skin? It makes no sense.

Except something about him tasting like salt flies into my muddled brain and as it does, his gaze drops to my lips. Only then do I realise I’m running my tongue over them, trying to recall that taste.

I quickly take the sugar out of the cupboard at my knees, slide the mug over to him and grab the milk from the fridge. When I turn around, I ask, “How?”

He locks eyes with mine. “I was trying to find the right key to unlock the door … and you just started … tasting me.”

I gape at him, suddenly recalling my arms around his neck, him holding me, how right it felt to be in his arms. Then nuzzling into his neck.

As my face burns, spontaneous combustion seems like a welcome option right now.

“So, you do remember,” he says, clearly aware of the state I’m in.

I watch him scoop sugar into his mug and stir. “I … but … I don’t understand … why didn’t you stop me?”

“I told you, I had my hands full just trying to get in the door.”

I scoff, “You’re telling me, with all those muscles, I overpowered you?”

When he rubs a hand over the bruise on his neck, I get the distinct impression he’s reliving it.

“Gavin?” I wait until his eyes reluctantly meet mine. “I think you owe me an explanation. And if we’re going to work together to clear your name, there can’t be any secrets between us. There can’t be any lies. Or it simply won’t work.”

He scratches the back of his head. “I agree. It’s just … the truth might mean you no longer want to help. And that scares the hell out of me.”

My heart picks up pace. What the fuck had I done last night? What had he done? “Did we have sex?” I blurt before I can stop myself.

His eyes widen. “Christ, Jamie. I’d never take advantage like that. Ever. The closest contact we had was this,” he says, indicating his neck.

And when you took off my underwear, I don’t say. But he doesn’t look guilty, just flustered and embarrassed. “Well, then, how did you let that happen?”

Releasing a long, reluctant breath, he finally says, “Because if felt so fucking good … I just … let you.”

I blink, not quite sure I heard that right. I watch a multitude of expressions pass behind his eyes, but the one thing I don’t see there is a lie.

“Oh,” I murmur, my heart thundering as I turn to the coffee machine again and get another mug going.

That hadn’t been what I’d expected him to say. More excuses are what I’d thought he’d come up with. Instead, he told me the blatant truth. Even though he truly believed I’d be so disgusted by his admission that I’d want him out of my life, he hadn’t lied to me.

He places his coffee mug on the counter and stands a little straighter, waiting for me, I think, to tell him to leave.

“What else?” I ask. “What else happened that you’ve left out, that you haven’t told me because you think it’s better left unsaid?

“Jamie, you were intoxicated. I know what happened last night had nothing to do with who you really are.”

“Tell me.”

“You tried to kiss me, and I stopped you. You also recited a little poem about hating me.”

My eyes widen in horror. I’d forgotten all about that idiotic poem. He must see the shame written all over my face, because he takes a step toward me.

“Then you told me you don’t hate me anymore. I’m hoping that those words, at least, were true.”

I’m too shocked to say anything.

“I should go,” he sighs.

I nod, my focus dipping to the floor. I need time to process all this. I tried to kiss him? I recited that awful poem? And still, he’d stayed, made sure I didn’t choke, gave me painkillers and made breakfast. Why?

He grabs his phone from the counter and shoves it in his pocket as he walks around the breakfast bar toward the front door.

When he opens it, I find myself right behind him, grabbing his elbow. He freezes on the threshold.

“I’m sorry,” I tell him.

“I don’t blame you. I can understand why you don’t want to help—”

“No,” I say, realising he’s taking my apology the wrong way. Tightening my grip on his arm, he finally turns and looks at me. “I’m sorry because I’m the one who embarrassed you . My behaviour … God, I’m awful and I’m so sorry I dragged you into my crap, that you had to witness any of it.”

“It’s actually nice to know you’re not perfect.”

I blink at him in confusion. “You thought I was perfect?”

“I was beginning to.” I don’t miss the way his eyes fill with hope as he smiles. “So, you’ll still help me?”

“Of course. I just need some time to process my father’s death, to deal with everything that entails. I’ll call you, Gavin. I promise.”

His eyes flick to my grip on his arm, then back to my face. Just as I try to release him, he covers my hand with his and squeezes.

“Thank you,” he says before crossing the threshold and heading down the porch steps.

“Gavin?” I call after him. He turns and looks at me questioningly. I take in the brightness of his expression, the way the sun lights up those deep blue eyes and warms his skin. “I did tell you the truth. I don’t hate you anymore.”

Before he can react, I close the door, lean against it, and let out a long breath.

Then I cover my face with my hands and groan.

Jesus. That poor guy. He must wonder what the hell he’s struck.

One minute I’m giving him great news, the next I’m crying in his arms. Then he brings me home because I’m embarrassingly drunk and I reward him by giving him a love bite and trying to kiss him.

And let’s not forget about reciting that hate-poem.

Have I missed anything?

Fuck.

I really am a total mess. And he was worried I’d never want to see him again? He’s the one who should be running for the hills, getting as far away from the crazy lady as possible.

Hurrying over to the couch, I flop down face first and let another groan of humiliation. When I try to force the memories of last night into my stupid, damaged brain, they refuse to surface.

Instead, I’m forced to imagine myself standing before him in the bathroom as he dragged down my underwear.

He’s right. Wearing a dress meant he didn’t have to see anything, and I believe him when he said he didn’t.

Closing my eyes, I can almost feel his fingers on my thighs, skating upward, searching for the lace.

God, I wish I could remember how that felt, how he looked when he touched me.

I want to know if he liked my skin, if it turned him on when he slid my panties down.

Scrambling to sit up, I realise it’s me who’s turned on by the mere thought of him doing that.

Jesus, what’s wrong with me?

Needing a distraction, I grab the remote and click on the TV. Gavin Lake’s presence in my home had filled up all the empty spaces, and now it’s far too quiet.

Which brings me right back to Dad. Although he hadn’t been home for a while, the fact that he’ll never, ever return hits me like a tonne of bricks.

As a band of tension squeezes around my head, I can’t grasp onto one single thought or emotion to explain how I feel about his death.

All that alcohol last night solved nothing. Even now, it’s too much, too hard.

While I try to focus on the TV, my mind drifts, playing a memory featuring a certain man making breakfast in my kitchen like he belonged there. The thought warms me up inside, makes me feel like someone really cares. About me.

A harsh scoff scorches my throat. I shouldn’t go there. What’s the point of wishing I had someone who cares enough so, for once in my life, I don’t have to shoulder every responsibility all on my own?

There is no point. Because I’m just fine alone.

Or is that a lie I tell myself is true?