Page 103 of The Path to Loving Him
I swallow my nerves. “I want to make sure everything’s okay between us. That you’re not mad.”
He looks off to the side, his jaw ticking.
“Ryland,” I say softly. “Are you . . . are you mad?”
When his eyes return, he says, “Yes, Gabby, I’m mad.”
“Why?”
“Because you got hurt,” he replies tersely. “You shouldn’t have been painting by yourself. That was incredibly dangerous. I wrote it down because I was just trying to be a dick. I didn’t think you’d actually follow through with it.”
“If you ask me to do something, Ryland, I’m going to do it.”
He drags his hand over his face. “Well, I’m pissed about it, okay?”
Whoa. Okay.
He’s not just mad. He’s really mad.
I nod. “I’m sorry.”
“No, don’t apologize. I’m pissed at myself.”
“You don’t need to be pissed with yourself.” I pick up the washcloth on the side of the tub and wet it. “As we move forward with working together and living next to each other, I need you to know something. I can take care of myself. I’m tough. I don’t need someone watching over me, helping me, attempting to take care of me. I’ve been on my own for a very long time. I can handle anything that comes my way. So please don’t tiptoe around me. Please don’t think I can’t handle a task, a fight, orwhatever might present itself in front of me. I’m strong, Ryland. I can handle my own.”
“I don’t doubt that,” he says.
“Then why are you trying to shield me?”
“Because it’s in my nature,” he says, placing his hands on his hips. “It’s just in me to care.”
I nod in understanding. “Well, consider me shielded . . . by myself.” I squeeze out the washcloth with one hand and try to soap it up, but find it difficult, so I just say fuck it in my head, uncover my breasts, and start soaping up.
When I glance up at him, he’s staring anywhere but at me. “I want to say I’ll try . . .” Our gazes connect. “But once I consider you a part of my life, there’s no way for me to turn off that switch.”
“You consider me a part of your life?”
He slowly nods. “I do, which means you’re mine to shield.”
“Ryland, I?—”
But he cuts me off as he kneels next to the tub, takes the washcloth out of my hands, and starts cleansing me. “You might not want to be shielded, but you sure as hell will be shielded by me. Don’t fight me on it.”
His tone is final.
There’s no arguing with him.
There’s no questioning.
At this moment, what he says . . . goes.
And I’m so entranced with the way he’s cleaning me that I can’t muster any words. Because he’s so gentle. Because I’ve never had someone do this to me before. No one’s ever cared for me like this.
He’s thorough.
He’s slow and deliberate.
He’s a protector.
