Wound Up(86)
They approached his complex with much less desperation than they’d approached the hotel Saturday night. No racing to the curb, or racing from the car, or racing to the room. Following the earlier emotional purge, it seemed almost anticlimactic. She was so lethargic her limbs felt as if they’d been cast in concrete. The light from oncoming traffic made her eyes burn. Leaning her head against the headrest, she let her mind go where it would.
She was peripherally surprised fear no longer owned her. Left in its wake was a muted sense of acceptance, a realization that she had made the irrevocable break from the life she’d led until the moment she’d come apart. Putting herself together again would happen more slowly as she figured out who she wanted to be.
She didn’t open her eyes when Justin stroked her hair. Instead, she blindly held out a hand. He took what she offered, holding it tenderly. That was so representative of who he was, that he would wordlessly cradle the piece of her she offered. How had it taken her so long to realize what a remarkable man he was? How had she been so blind where he was concerned?
“My place is on the second floor. I have no idea how quiet it is on the weekends. I’ve only had it a few weeks and it’s...Spartan? That might be an understatement. But I finally bought a bed and I—”
“You don’t owe me an explanation,” she whispered. “But I do want you to know I’m sorry.”
“Sorry? For what?” He pulled into the parking garage.
“I was so hard on you.”
He took the first spot they came to, shutting the car off before shifting in his seat to face her. “What happened before? I own that. I was an ass. Period. You deserved, deserve, better than that. I intend to see you get it.” He took her hand and held it over her heart. “From me.”
“I have to say this.” She swallowed that ever-familiar swell of emotion that made her breath come short. “What you said to me Saturday night? It hit every hot button I had. But now I feel like I have a clean slate—no past disappointments, no current expectations, no future dreams.”
“That will change.” He curled his fingers around hers and squeezed gently. “I promise.”
She tried to smile but was sure simply it came off as a tired best effort. “Is that a promise from Justin Maxwell or Dr. Justin Maxwell?”
“Both.” Leaning across the console, he unbuckled her seat belt. “Hang tight.” He hopped out of the car and came to her door, helping her out.
When he bent low as if to pick her up, she backed up a step. “You can’t carry me into the lobby.”
He met her gaze and grinned. “Just picking up your bag, Ms. Cooper.”
A faint blush warmed her cheeks. “Fair enough. Remind me to tip you when we get to the room. I won five bucks off a chump earlier.”
Justin snorted. “He’ll never hear the end of that. I promise.”
Leaning on him for support, she let him lead her across the street, through the lobby and into the elevator. Memories of their first elevator ride together warmed her. He’d held her bag then, too.
When the elevator announced their arrival at the second floor, Justin guided her out. He made to open the door and froze, looking at her with almost bashful chagrin.
“What?” she asked, swaying with exhaustion when he took his arm away to adjust his hold on her bag.