IRENE - BLACKBIRD book 6

2. razor sharp

She pulled open the comforter and the clean sheet, smelling of herbs, with a determined tug. But her determination faltered before her head touched the pillow. Nope. Not a good moment to let Taylor go. She still needed him around. Because it was safe.

She turned off her bedside lamp and the word seemed to shine in the shadows of her room.

Safe.

All of a sudden, her mind took one of its twisted swerves and left her out of breath.

Safe!

That was the whole thing behind her love for Brock. He wasn't supposed to love her back. Ever. So loving him was safe.

Inconvenient. Unrequited. Ludicrous.

Oh, yeah, all of the above and then some.

But definitely safe.

Because she didn't need to open up and let him in. She didn't have to trust. She didn't need to believe. She could waste whatever tenderness and affection and even desire she wanted on him. And she didn't have to deal with anything in return. A one-way street. So easy to go. So safe.

But no. The stupid man had to make it two ways, and go flash his stupid headlights in her face like a damn beacon, screaming, "Here! Here! Look! I'm right here! Come to me!" As if she'd ever asked for directions. As if she'd ever wanted a destination.

She sunk her face in the pillow and let out a muffled sigh.

To make it even worse, he'd be back in town any day now. He'd taken two weeks off, to stay longer in DC with Andrea. But unless Cassidy had found him something to do over there, he'd be back in Boston next week tops.

She rolled over to lay on her back and crossed her arms over her face.

Shit!

How was she supposed to face him?

Yeah. As if nothing ever happened. Not her outburst back in September. Not his almost dying in October. Not his so unexpected confession in January.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

The problem wasn't pretending nothing had happened. The problem was that she was too eager to do it. So she'd have to be extra careful to not be drier than necessary and keep from avoiding him too much.

He wouldn't try to get in touch with her, she was positive. But he wouldn't stop her either, if she chose to stay away by all means.

And that was just not right.

Because in the end, she was to blame for whatever he felt about her.

She'd sought him out from day one—meaning eighteen years ago. She'd been after him like a damn lapdog, flapping her tail to get his attention. She'd even kissed him back in March, for God's sake! Until she got his attention. So now she couldn't give him the cold shoulder just because he turned out to be not immune to her affection.

She stretched out her arms and took both hands to her face.

Holy shit! How could she be such an asshole?

She loved him, no doubt about it. He loved her—or felt something for her. And there she was: trying to come up with a plan not to come across him too often at work!?

Gosh, she hated herself so, so bad.

A part of her only wanted to throw her arms around him and stick to his side for as long as they both should live. She knew he was about to come back only because she'd been counting the days. Because she missed him around. Like she'd always done.

But then came the fear, sheer, razor sharp, to slice all of her stupid fantasies to bloody strips. Because there was no way he could really love her. And she was too old, and too lonely, to dare giving in to what she felt. Because sooner than later she'd end up giving it all up, and she'd change beyond repair to try to please him, make him happy, be up to his expectations. He'd find out all the weakness and shortcomings behind her persona. And that'd be the end of it. He'd be fed up and turn away.

Loving her would bring him closer. Only to push him away sooner and faster.

She'd pulled herself back on her feet from such a fall once, when Connor's father left. She knew she wouldn't be able to do it again.

She shut her eyes with a shaky breath, hating the quiet tears rolling down her face.