Pitch Imperfect(83)

Third strike and she was out.

Yeah, out of it. Was that why she was smiling? At some point Rob had discarded his formal jacket and kilt to sleep with her, his sheet-clad body spooned against hers. How many times during the night had she coated his chest with her sorrow? Felt him kiss her head, her cheeks, her lips? Her tears had been bitter and still he had drunk them. At every gasp and cry he had been there, his voice her succour, his embrace her refuge.

Her sheets were infused with Rob’s scent. His clothes, neatly stacked on the chair by the window, his watch on her bedside table. A shiny black strand on her pillow. Had she torn it out when she’d raked her hands through his hair?

Anjuli sprang out of bed and went to the mirror on top of her chest of drawers. Amazingly, she looked the same as she had yesterday. Except her hair could rival Medusa’s and her eyes the bogeyman’s. And she needed a wash. She cocked her ear, listening to the shower. She could slip in with Rob, press herself against him and wash away the night with the soap on his body and—

“Brazen hussy,” she admonished herself.

Was she so weak that one night in Rob’s arms could melt away her barriers? Maybe, but it couldn’t erase her self-hatred. Allowing herself to grieve didn’t mean she was miraculously “cured” of her guilt or suddenly free to be with Rob.

She didn’t know what it did mean though, or how and what to say when Rob emerged from the shower. Quickly, she changed into a fresh T-shirt and sweat pants and brushed her hair. Feeding Reiver took no more than a few seconds but she had to keep busy. Cereal, milk and jam on the table, bread on the board. Bacon, tomatoes and eggs ready by the frying pan. Coffee measured and kettle ready.

Anjuli listened for the sound of Rob’s footsteps. This was the morning after without the night before, but how should she handle it? Hug him, tell him how much his compassion meant to her, or shake his hand and thank him politely for his shoulder...his chest...his groin? Oh, God.

A sprightly walk with Reiver to the bridge and a long stare at the river was all the time it took for Rob to pull out a full Scottish breakfast, by the smell of it. Good. The grease would make her heart as lethargic as her brain and it would stop racing around in dizzying circles.

Anjuli paused in the kitchen doorway, remembering the first time she’d seen Rob. It wasn’t every day she had a man cooking breakfast in a kilt, shirt loose, and it seemed as surreal as the emotional torrent she had unleashed the night before. Rob looked relaxed and at home in her kitchen, listening to Radio Borders as he dropped in the bacon. Nothing was burning.

Anjuli sniffed the air. “Smells like cardiac arrest.”

“Breakfast is almost ready.”

Rob expertly flipped an egg and glanced over his shoulder. Wet hair and a morning shadow emphasised his slightly scruffy look. The urge to slide her hands around his waist and press herself against his back was so strong Anjuli clasped her hands behind her back. Why did she feel as though they’d spent the night having passionate sex when all she’d done was sob and snivel all over him?

“I hope you’re hungry,” he said.

Well, she was starving and so, it seemed, was Rob. He left the hob and walked towards her, and the nearer he got the warmer his gaze. Anjuli tensed but didn’t move, lifting her face to his. If he wanted a quick, friendly peck she would give it to him and that would be the extent of it. Rob snaked his hand around her waist and drew her close, but he didn’t kiss her lips. Instead, he brushed the hair away from her neck, leaned down and touched his lips to the tender skin above her pumping pulse, trailing his mouth to the hollow in her throat.

His lips barely grazed her, but she felt as if they pressed through her every layer until their touch reached her core. Her nipples tightened and she began to throb in places other than behind her eyes.

Breathlessly, she stepped away. “You’re going to burn me—my breakfast.”

He jumped to the cooker and Anjuli retreated to the table, trying to stem the heat she could feel covering her face. At the bridge she’d decided to put the brakes on. Whatever last night had meant or could come to mean, she needed time. Time to recover from sharing her past, and time to think about how she lived the rest of her life. Ironically, “time will tell” was a platitude she now found herself embracing wholeheartedly.

It wasn’t as if she had no reason to feel confused and apprehensive. One second she and Rob weren’t speaking and the next she’d hit him, screamed like a psycho, sobbed her heart out and then snuggled up to him in bed. Moulded herself to his back and felt him harden against her bottom, no matter the sheet he’d put between them. Let him kiss her, tell her it would all be all right when it wouldn’t and—