He won’t look at me directly, and I’m pretty sure he’s blushing hard. “You…took your bra off, too. And you…”
“I threw myself at you, didn’t I?”
He shrugs. “Sort of. Yeah.” He finally looks at me, and I see a welter of emotions in his gaze. “So I got a shirt on you, and got you in bed. You asked me to put on music, so I did, and then you fell asleep.”
“God, Ben. I’m sorry—”
He cuts in over me. “Don’t. Please don’t apologize. You have nothing to apologize for.”
I take a long sip of hot coffee. “I guess I’m lucky you’re an honorable guy. Most guys wouldn’t have hesitated.”
Ben doesn’t answer right away. “I’d like to think there are more decent guys out there than that. How could anyone have even considered it? You were drunk and hurting. You just wanted to forget—that’s what you said. And I get it. It was…a defense mechanism. Just forget it. It’s okay.”
“I can’t forget it. How can you?”
“Do you remember doing it?” he asks.
I think back. I do, sort of. I have a memory of thinking he was sexy and that his kindness was sexy. He was taking care of me, he was there for me, and that was sexy. That’s what scares me about this situation. I may have been shitty wasted last night and, like he said, throwing myself at him was a defense mechanism, a reflexive act of desperation to not have to think or feel, even for a minute. But that sense of desperation is there, still, even now. Especially now. Sober, it’s even worse. And Ben isn’t making it any easier. He’s insanely hot, those big expressive dark eyes, that powerful athlete’s body, and the fact that he didn’t take advantage of me, that he listened and held me and let me cut loose, and understood what I needed.
“I do, a little. I remember…” I close my eyes and summon the memory. “I remember you backing away from me. I remember you putting your hand out to stop me, and accidentally touching my breast.” I look up at him as I say this, watching for his reaction.
He’s looking down, rubbing his hand on the fabric of his gym shorts. “Yeah, that was an accident. You walked into me. I didn’t mean to—” He’s blushing hard. Even with the shade of his skin, it’s easy to tell.
I can’t help grinning. “It’s fine, Ben.” The humor is gone immediately, though. “For real, Ben. Thank you. For…everything. For putting up with me. You don’t know me, and you don’t…you didn’t have to do any of this.”
He shrugs. “You clearly needed someone. What else was I supposed to do?” My coffee is gone, and Ben nods at the empty mug. “More?”
I shake my head. “I’m still hungry, actually.”
He starts to get off the bed. “I’ve got—”
I interrupt him. “How about we go somewhere for breakfast? I know a couple good diners.” I glance at the clock, and I’m glad to see it’s only ten in the morning.
He shrugs. “Sure. Let me change, then.” He points to the other side of the bed. “Your dress and bra are over there.” He flushes again as he mentions my bra. How cute is that? Why is he so easily embarrassed by such simple things?
I don’t really relish the thought of going to breakfast in my funeral dress, but my bag with my things is at my grandparents’ house, which is a good hour away. I should probably call them, just to let them know I’m okay; after breakfast, I decide. Maybe I can stop at a Kohl’s or something and buy a new outfit.
Ben slides off the bed and rummages in his bureau, withdraws a pair of khaki cargo shorts and a blue-and-white striped polo shirt. “I’ll change in the bathroom real quick. You can take a shower, if you want. I don’t have any girly shower stuff, but you could rinse off if you want.”
“Girly shower stuff?” I laugh.
He shrugs, grinning. “Yeah, you know, all that shit girls have in their bathrooms.”
“Like…shampoo and conditioner?” I tease.
“Well, how the hell am I supposed to know? I’m not a girl. I use two-in-one shampoo and conditioner and a bar of soap. What else would I need?”
Now why the hell does my mind bring up a visual of Ben taking a shower? I can almost see him running a bar of soap over his tan skin…I force the errant thought away.
“I could stand to rinse off, I guess. Thanks.”
Seconds later, Ben tosses his old clothes on a pile in the corner. “Bathroom is all yours. I put a clean towel on the sink.”
“Thanks.”
I fish a hair tie out of my purse and knot my hair on top of my head, and then take a quick shower. He wasn’t kidding. The shower literally has a single bottle of shampoo, a bar of soap, and a washcloth. My bathroom at home has easily a dozen different bottles, since my roommates and I each have our own shower supplies. I leave my hair and wash off, and then get out, tying the towel around my torso.
Ben is in the kitchen, and I glance at him as I move back into his room. His eyes go to mine, to the towel and my cleavage, and then away. I can’t help a little smile from crossing my lips at the way he quickly looks away, as if embarrassed to be caught looking at me. I close his door behind me and put on my bra and the dress, not bothering with underwear, which I stuff into my purse; I’d rather go commando than put on dirty underwear after a shower.
I slip my feet into my heels and join Ben in the kitchen, where he waits with his phone and wallet in his hand. “So. I’m ready,” I say.
He smiles at me. “I can call a cab.”
I frown. “Don’t you have a car?”
He nods. “Yeah, but I still can’t drive yet, not with my knee. Shouldn’t be too much longer, but…”
“Well, then, I can drive your car, if you don’t mind.”
He grabs a pair of keys from off the microwave and hands them to me. “Not at all. Let’s go.”
Ben drives a massive black truck, a three- or four-year-old Silverado with huge, knobby, off-road tires and a lift-kit. I glance at him, and the step up. “You gonna be able to get in okay?” I ask. He pulls open the passenger door, tosses his cane in, grabs the oh-shit bar with both hands and pulls himself up and in. “All right, then. Guess that’s a yes,” I say with a grin, climbing up.
“You gonna be able to drive this big ol’ monster of a truck?”
I snort at him. “I’m from Texas, Ben. What do you think?”