Marriage of Inconvenience(Knitting in the City Book #7)(100)

In Chicago, I’d eventually pulled her body to mine and she’d fallen asleep against me.

But here, I’d backed off. I made sure she was sleeping before I turned in. Given what happened at my apartment and what she was going through with her father’s death, I figured a wide berth was best, give her space to set the pace when she was good and ready. That was the plan.

However, by the time she’d fallen asleep, she’d curled herself into a tight ball next to me. I’d found her this way every night since.

Every. Single. Night.

Her knees to her chest; her chin tucked in; and she slept silently, didn’t move again once she was asleep. A few times I’d woken up in the middle of the night and looked over at her. I didn’t like how she slept, like she was cold, or protecting herself, or hugging herself all night. I’d wanted to reach a hand over and pull her against me like I’d done in Chicago, warm her up, loosen her limbs.

But that wouldn’t have been right either. She didn’t need me taking over, telling her what was best. If she wanted me, she knew where I was.

Plus, just being honest, Kat might’ve been an angel, but I wasn’t.

You’d think I’d be able to channel my inner gentleman, keep my mind out of the gutter, especially given all she was dealing with.

Nope. Not me. Not good old Daniel O’Malley.

It’s a freaking shiva, for Christ’s sake! Let the woman mourn. Give her some space. And stop thinking about her naked.

Not think about her naked? Fucking impossible.

So I continued giving her space, a lot of space, both day and night.

I worked long hours remotely, using my laptop in the study, taking care of business. I also stopped over at Mrs. Zucker’s a few times to meet with the old lady’s plumber. I took her car into the shop and did her grocery shopping, visiting for two of the afternoons.

Meanwhile, Kat knit, read books, and had quiet conversations with my mother over tea and kosher cookies. And slept.

My ma did her thing, Kat had a respite, I was a horny scumbag, and the days passed in quiet calm. But that didn’t mean I didn’t notice stuff about her, like how she took her coffee—two scoops of sugar, two tablespoons of cream—or how she bit her lip when she read a knitting pattern. Sometimes her mouth moved when she knit, like she was counting. She seemed to prefer sitting on the floor rather than a chair or a sofa.

She never wore socks, her feet always bare, and seemed to favor dresses over pants. Her hair was always down except right before bed when she’d braid it. Her nighttime lotion smelled like vanilla, like cake. Her daytime lotion smelled like coconuts and made me think of a tropical vacation, which made me think of Kat in a bikini, which had me taking a cold shower.

The only time she was messy—and this struck me as very important—was when she knit. Her yarn, papers, needles, and hooks spread out everywhere like she needed to see everything or have it within arm’s reach. All other times, everything was picked up, cleaned up, buttoned up, and put away. She put away her toothbrush and toiletries, back into her suitcase, after every use. Kat even folded and stored her pajamas.

Who folds their pajamas?

Just like my apartment back in Chicago, she was here, but she didn’t want to be seen. She hid behind orderliness and routine, making as little noise as possible. She held herself back, like she didn’t want to be a bother, like she didn’t trust us to see who she was and want her here anyway.

It pissed me off, but what could I say about it? Nothing. At least, not yet. Her father had just died, and she needed to grieve on her tidy terms.

And another thing, despite Eugene’s prediction, mourners did come to visit.

Katherine and Desmond Sullivan, Quinn’s parents, came by on Friday, bringing dinner and pictures of baby Desmond.

Eugene himself stopped over on Sunday for a short visit, during which Kat gave him the look of stone cold betrayal and left the room.

His eyes followed her as she climbed the stairs and disappeared around the corner. “He didn’t deserve her worry when he was alive.”

I studied the man for a moment, his sharp tie, the solid gold tie clip. “Is that why you didn’t tell her?”

His stare cut back to mine. “I needed her focused on more important things.”

“More important than her father dying?”

“Her future was more important. She didn’t need the distraction.” He sighed, looking tired. “She’ll come around.”

I didn’t know if he was speaking to me or himself, but I scoffed. “Yeah, I don’t think so.”

Eugene’s eyes cut back to mine, his eyebrows lifting in question.

“If you want her to talk to you again any time before your deathbed, or acknowledge your existence, you’re going to have to apologize in a big way. And I don’t know how you’re going to do that, since she won’t even look at you.”