"Nothing. It's just that I was too old. Had a record. They didn't have to-"
"Rett. Know what?"
"That everyone who takes me in dies."
Godfuck. And why am I telling Gigi's mom all this? And Gigi. My heart won't stop racing, and bile rises in my throat. Stupid, Jarett. I bet they're already regretting inviting you in. Get out. My heartbeat thumps in my ears. Sweat rolls down my back.
But Gigi somehow holds me down, keeps me from getting up and leaving. "Mom, enough," she says, her words coming in weird echoes, and that's when I realize she's sort of wrapped herself around me, not just one arm anymore but both, her chin resting on my shoulder, one leg thrown over mine. "We're going to bed."
What?
Maggie leans over and pats my knee. "Becky loves you like her own, Jarett. Remember that. Ah, I'll go make myself some tea and watch my favorite show. Off you go, kids. Sleep well."
I blink at her as the buzzing in my ears subsides and the pressure in my chest starts to ease. Wait a sec. I'm staying the night?
Not sure when that was decided. Did Gigi ask me to stay?
Not that I'd object, but her mom doesn't, either?
"Come on, let's go." Gigi untangles herself from me, and I shiver. She gets up and holds out her hand to me, smiling. "Unless you don't want to stay?"
There's nothing I want more in the world right now. Stay in this house.
Stay with her.
So I take her hand and heave myself to my feet, then stagger after her upstairs.
"You have a guest room?" I ask, buying time between climbing steps for my creaking knee to bend and unbend.
"No."
I'm so stunned by this new turn that I climb the rest of the stairs not feeling my knee at all. "Gigi … "
"Don't worry," she says as she pulls me into a room-her room, I realize, with posters on the walls and a hot pink comforter. "Mom is relaxed. She trusts me. And she likes you."
"Yeah." I look around as she tugs me determinedly toward her bed. "That's cuz she doesn't really know me."
"It doesn't take much to realize you like someone," she says, turning to face me, her eyes very bright. "Just a few clues. And I have mine."
Chapter Twenty-Three
Gigi
I can't believe Jarett's in my room, sitting on my bed. Can't believe I brought him here, that he agreed to stay, that I went out to take those cakes in the first place with barely any hopes at all, and now here we are.
Side by side.
His words replay in my ears, and I keep seeing the way he looked at me, and at my mom while he explained why nobody could ever want him. How determined he was to protect his foster mom, not adopted after all, from even the possibility of an idea she might have done something wrong, or that he isn't grateful.
Or that he doesn't love her. He does love Becky Lowe, I could see it in his eyes, hear it in his voice. He thinks of her as his mom, but won't allow himself to believe it. Correction-to believe he deserves it.
He's totally breaking my heart, and whoa, slow down, Gigi. You were only out hunting for information on him, not forgiving him and throwing yourself into his arms.
Okay, okay. Deep breaths.
And that's another mistake, because underneath the scent of my rose candles and that of clean soap coming from his borrowed clothes, I can smell him.
I can always smell him, that indefinable spice of his sweat that is so … Jarett, and it makes my heart pound with anticipation and my belly clench with desire.
Time to put some distance between us, but before I do, his hand darts out and grabs mine.
His thick lashes lift, and his eyes meet mine. "Thank you. For bringing me here. For the chocolate and cake. For … " He looks down at my hand, turning it over on his big palm, as if thinking to find the words there. "For everything."
"You're always welcome in my home, Rett."
And crap, that's not what I'd meant to say. It'd should have been rather something along the lines of "You're welcome." Something neutral.
Tonight I keep saying things I'm not supposed to. But who am I kidding? That's what always happens when he's around.
His eyes widen a little.
"Are things bad?" I blurt out, shivering when his thumb strokes over my knuckles. "With your mom?"
"I told you, she's not my mom."
"But I'm sure she'd want you to call her that."
There. You see? No control over my mouth. Crap. I'd promised myself not to push him, especially not tonight, when he looks so sad, even less about something I can't be sure about.
But he chews on the inside of his cheek, and nods. "She did. I mean, she told me many times to call her that, but I never did."
"Why not?" I shift closer to him, until his muscled thigh is pressed to mine.
"Dunno. Never felt right. And she only took me in for the sake of Sebastian."
I frown at him. "What do you mean?"
He's still staring down at our entwined hands. "Doesn't matter."
"Rett … "
"Life is what it is. That's what Connor would say."
"Who is Connor?"
He jerks, those expressive eyes going round. "Fuck, forget I said that. All of it." He's panting, his face pale, and he's scaring me a little. "What's wrong with me today? I don't know what's wrong with me."
"It's okay. We don't have to talk about it. I'm sorry."
"Sorry?" A strained laugh escapes him. "You got nothing to be sorry for. If anything, I'm the one who should be sorry. I know I should keep away from you, that it's dangerous, but I can't, and I … "
He doesn't finish.
God, so many questions I want to ask him. With every word he says, I have ten questions more. Who is this Connor and why does he sound so important? Why does he think Becky Lowe took him in because of Sebastian, and is that linked to the promise he made her to look after him? Why does he think that everybody who takes him in dies?
And above all, why did he just say he can't keep away from me?
He's shivering harder now, gaze going distant again, and I push away my questions for another time. After all, I invited him here because I was worried about him, and he does look tired. Exhausted.
Though inviting him into my bed hadn't been in the plans.
Still.
"You'll be fine, Rett."
He sort of shakes his head while nodding. "Yeah," he says wheezing, and whatever happened today at the nursing home had to be bad.
I make a note to ask Mom if she knows anything about it, and realize I know next to nothing about Alzheimer's. One more thing to investigate.
Anyway, I can't stand seeing him like that anymore. Yanking my hand away, I stand up, turn and push on his chest.
"Lie down and let me take care of you."
I expect him to make a smartass comment, or at the very least arch a brow at me, but he doesn't. It's a testament to how bad he must be feeling, that he lets me shove him down on the mattress, though the small frown on his face tells me he isn't sure what's going on.
Guess I've surprised him quite a lot today. Myself, too. In good ways, I hope, though there's no way to tell just yet, but in any case …
In any case, I'm not backing down now, not stopping to think about it, because it feels good to take care of him, to make sure he's okay in my turn.
If feels right.
"What are you up to?" Jarett asks sleepily. He's still in Merc's borrowed sweats and T-shirt, though he's chucked off the sweater. He's on his side, the covers drawn up to his chest, those tattooed arms folded over my hot pink quilt, and …
What did he just ask me?
"I'm just … going to get changed," I tell him, waving my nightgown at him.
He gives me a faint smirk. "I've seen you naked, sweets, or did you forget?"
How could I forget?
"You look better," I whisper. The color has returned to his face, and he's stopped shivering.
"Warmer," he admits. "It will be even warmer when you come to bed."
"Let me change. Won't be a minute." Because it's somehow different having him rip the clothes off me to have sex with me and this … thing we're doing tonight. Lying together in my bed, to sleep.
For warmth. For comfort.
I don't think he'd been only cold before, I think as I hurry to the bathroom and close the door, then proceed to shuck off my clothes and pull on my nightie. He'd seemed … shaken. And now he's acting as if nothing happened. As if the five minutes that passed between saying he's sorry and me helping him under the covers have flipped the switch, and he's back to his arrogant self.
I'm puzzling over this as I return to the room, not happy about this, and yet happy he doesn't seem so sad anymore. So lost.
Lost, yes. That's the word I'd been looking for. Since I found him outside the nursing home, he seemed lost.
No, scratch that. He seemed that way since I first met him. I hadn't realized then, but as I enter the room and find him dozing, I know it's true. All the things he said, all the bits and pieces fit into the picture.