Skin (Flesh 2)

There was a mole to the right hand side of her spine, a third of the way down. He brushed a finger back and forth over it. “It’s okay. You don’t have to say anything.”

“I don’t know what to say.” Her voice wavered, like the fact stunned her, or unnerved her.

“Tell me you hate me,” he said, half joking.

He waited for the words, fully expecting them but not quite as hardened to them as he’d like to be. Those pretty lips parted and her ribcage moved beneath the palms of his hands as she took a deep breath. But then her lips sealed shut again.

“Ros?” He leant around to get a better look.

Her eyes were closed and her face relaxed. Really relaxed, more than he’d ever seen.

“It’s okay,” he said. “Go to sleep.”

She gave an almost imperceptible nod and her breathing fell into a deep, steady rhythm and stayed that way. He’d really worn her out.

“You don’t hate me. You trust me,” he whispered, because it was true.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

“I need a knife,” Roslyn announced the next day.

She stood beside Nick, hands hanging by her sides and face serene, waiting calmly. Or hopefully it looked like she waited calmly. What a joke. Her insides had been a jumble all day, humming and buzzing, anxious about everything. She’d read Gone with the Wind for a while, paced for a while, then read while she paced for a while. Not even having her beloved spare reading glasses could help her mood. Scarlet schemed and it just pissed her off. Normally she adored that southern belle, but not today. The walls were pressing in again but there would be no walk outside as promised the night before. The constant drum of rain on the rooftop assured her of that.

“Why do you need a knife?” Nick crouched beside the fireplace, feeding it wood. He pottered along, one job after another, keeping himself busy. His industriousness peeved her, too. The dude couldn’t sit still. Flickering flames cast weird shadows across his face. The hollows beneath his cheekbones made him appear positively evil.

Candles were scattered about the place. With everything shut up they’d be sitting in the dark without them. No need for socks or sweaters in the cozy, warm air. She’d been plodding around in jeans and T-shirt, feet bare. All the better for dragging them across the wooden floor, making the chain scrape and sing. Nick rewarded her with a flinch each and every time, like clockwork.

Fuck him. He deserved that and so much more.

With a flourish she brought forth the glossy red fruit. “I need a knife because I like to peel the skin off my apples.”

“The skin’s good for you.”

She just looked at him and waited.

“Alright.” He rose to his feet with a long-suffering sigh and looked down at her. Eyes boring into her like he could read her mind. He wished. He’d wisely refrained from any further recitations from her diary. Just as well; her insides were wound tight enough. From his back pocket he pulled a Swiss Army knife and extracted the shiny silver blade. “The rest are in the truck. Will this do?”

“That’ll be great. Thank you.”

But he didn’t hand it over, just held it there. He appeared to be doing the rugged-man thing again, overdue for a shave. She’d shove him into 573.3—Prehistoric Man. A couple of days’ growth lined his jaw and framed his mouth. His fringe flopped over his high forehead and he pushed it back with an impatient hand, not taking his eyes off her. “Why don’t I do it for you? Don’t want you to slip up and cut yourself.”

“I won’t. And I know how I like it done.”

Dark eyes stared her down for a long moment. If he wanted to unnerve her he’d have to try harder. Familiarity had definitely kicked in. “Okay.”

Without further ado she took the knife from his hands. Her fingers accidentally brushed against the palm of his hand and heat raced up her arm. She jerked back, almost dropping the knife. Best not to touch him. Safer. Distance was her friend. “Thanks.”

He nodded.

Sadly, the furthest point of retreat remained the kitchen. She pulled out a chopping board in preparation for part two of the process. But first for part one. There was a ritual to this. One she’d always been rather particular about.

Nick’s eyes were still on her. She could feel him attempting to mess with her mind. Trying to drive her batty seemed to be his life plan. Her shoulders rose and her spine curved, creating the illusion of privacy. He had no place in her thoughts.

Things had become weird, or weirder, since the massage last night. Or even further back to the turning her on bullshit from yesterday morning. Neither of them spoke much. Talk had become quick and to the point, efficient and minimal. But he watched her.

And while he’d always watched her, now there were subtle differences. Her traitorous body seemed over-aware of him. Nerve endings lived in a constant state of high alert. Ignoring him had become more taxing than usual. Being tuned into him sucked the life right out of her.

No more.

She about-faced and set her butt against the kitchen cabinet, began the slow and careful procedure of taking off the apple skin in one long strip. Round and round she went, sinking the sharp blade in just the right distance, her concentration absolute. She was a pro at this. It had been her trick at the school when she’d been rostered on to monitor lunch breaks. The kids loved it. Had loved it. There was something almost Zen about it.

She did her best to ignore him when he joined her, his stare set on her practised hands.

Not so f**king relaxing. Because she couldn’t have a minute’s peace, could she?

Sure enough, the atrocious testosterone-laden scent of him clogged up her nose. Damn it. He stood far closer than necessary, but she could block it out. Hold her breath so his smell couldn’t reach her and concentrate on the task.

But he radiated heat. The back of her hand warmed, the one carefully wielding the knife while her left tended to the apple. Round and round she turned the fruit, keeping the depth and width as consistent as possible. It was so much damn harder to do with him scrutinizing and distracting that she went much slower than normal. She could feel her face scrunching up in concentration. The tip of her tongue sat firmly between her teeth.

Good, this was good. Already, she felt more like she had herself back under control.

A nice slow exhale followed by a robust inhale, that’s the way. She hunched over further, focusing, trying to block him out. No problem. She’d done this a thousand times, a million. He meant nothing to her. He was a nonentity. Then he shifted slightly. He moved his weight from one foot to the other.