Page 29 of Whispered Promises

“Couldn’t you at least have been gentle about it, rather than use your giant bear hands? A hug would be nice,” I grumble, dropping onto one of the sofas.

Nate doesn’t even look my way. He grabs a plate, loads it up, then hands it to Rosy, as she sits beside him on the two seater. “I could’ve.”

Lifting a plate from the pile available, I slide a few slices of pizza onto it, then bite into one. My body continues on autopilot, going through the motions of chewing and swallowing.

My mind drifts, distracted by flashbacks of that time in my life I try to pretend doesn’t exist. Without Nate and the guys, I’m not sure where I would’ve been. When I hadn’t returned to work for the rest of the week, Nate turned up, hammering on the door to let him in, then when I’d answered it unwashed and drunk, he’d pushed his way in, packed up a bag, then hauled me out of there.

I’ve never stepped foot in that house since. I nursed my fractured heart here, more drunk than sober, whilst they’d all gone and packed up the place for me. Those days feel so distant now, and most of the time I rarely think of them, too determined to live in the moment, in the now. But since having Rosy in our lives, the wall protecting what’s left of me is crumbling.

She’s starting to make me feel again.

THIRTEEN

ROSY

Nate hands me the plate he’s loaded up for me, and our hands brush as I accept it. My heart flutters, then pounds, as it does every time I’m around him.

“Thank you,” I murmur.

It’s only my second meal with them, my second time even being here in their home, but it’s starting to feel natural already. The only thing feeling off is Max’s unusual silence. Even when eating, he usually keeps up a stream of conversation. But tonight, it’s as though he’s just going through the motions.

Did I say something wrong earlier when we were at my place?

Worry niggles at me; the need to try to smooth things over and apologise for something I may or may not have done tries to worm its way in.

No. I mentally halt myself, recalling the words drilled into me by my former therapist. I’m not responsible for his reactions, emotions, or thoughts. I need to trust that he will communicate with me.

The words help soothe my worry, and the ache eases slightly, but my gaze keeps flicking back to him.

A light touch on my knee has my focus drifting away from Max’s far-off expression. My gaze trails from the immaculate fingers, up a woollen sleeve, to a probing hazel stare.

“What would you like to drink?” Noah asks.

Swallowing back the extra saliva that seems to have appeared out of nowhere, I try to get my brain to think. Come on.

Thoughts, any of them, would be ideal right now.

“Rosy? We have tea, coffee, juice…” He smiles reassuringly, and it causes small creases to spread around his eyes.

“I like tea. What options do you have?” I manage to croak, feeling flustered under his attention.

“There should be peppermint, lemon and ginger, and possibly chamomile, if you fancy herbals. Otherwise, we have PG or Earl Grey,” Bry comments, breaking the spell Noah has me under.

“Oh, I’d love lemon and ginger, please.”

Bry gifts me with another warm smile. Why are they all so handsome when they smile at me? It’s criminal and cruel to be surrounded by it all. “We can get some more flavours if there’s anything specific you like,” he offers, oblivious to his effect on me.

“You don’t have to do that. I’m happy to drink whatever you have, or I can just bring some of my own. You don’t need to buy a whole box of something if it’s just me drinking it. Plus, I’m sort of a mood drinker.” I laugh, slightly embarrassed that I just admitted that.

Tea. I’m talking about bloody tea.

Should I be talking about sports instead? I need to read up on some because I am clueless.

Max snorts. “Noah’s the same, so don’t worry. You can both get excited over weird, fruity water together.” He waves, then takes another huge bite of pizza.

“Ignore him, Rosy. Max has no taste in anything that isn’t food,” Noah says dryly. He squeezes my knee gently, then gets up and walks into the kitchen.

“I have excellent taste.” The flirty man winks at me, holding my eyes for a second before his attention returns to the pizza he’s demolishing at an alarming speed. Watching him be his more usual bouncy self releases some of the tension I didn’t realise I was holding.