They still had more talking to do. Maybe after he told her everything, it would cease to be a problem. Rissy could end up avoiding him, and that would be the end of his torment.
Or it could be hell on a whole new scale.
* * *
BY THE TIME Armie returned some fifteen minutes later, she had the table set, the food served and drinks poured.
She felt ridiculously nervous, spending the evening with him this way. As a natural-born hostess who loved to cook for others, she’d been serving dinners since she was fourteen. But never for her and Armie alone. It felt far more intimate than it should have, and that made it more important than it needed to be. She sensed Armie had let her in, just a little, and she didn’t want to do anything to change his mind.
She also didn’t want to have to walk on eggshells around him. She wanted to be herself—and she badly wanted him to be okay with that.
He came into the kitchen cautiously, every muscle in his chiseled body tensed, his dark gaze unreadable. It wasn’t until he looked away at the table that she was able to draw a breath.
“Ready?” Hopefully she’d infused just the right amount of casual ease into her tone. “You better be hungry.”
“I am.”
The way he said that, how he again looked at her, made her laugh nervously. She clamped her lips together, cleared her throat. “Then I hope you like it.”
He held out her chair.
Too warm, a little breathless and very aware of his nearness, she sat down.
He seated himself across from her and waited until she’d taken a bite to do the same.
Waiting, Merissa watched him. “Well?”
“Good. Really good.” He forked up more, then gave an appreciative hum. “You’re an amazing cook.”
“Thank you.” Relaxing a little, she teased, “I would’ve loved to make you dessert, too, but I know that’s pushing it.”
“Once a week,” he said. “That’s what I allow myself. Keeps me from ransacking the doughnut shop.”
“Is that what you like? Doughnuts?”
“And cakes and pies and cookies.” He smiled at her. “Seems like every time I’m at your place, you have sweets set out. I’ve never been able to completely resist.”
Not dessert, no, but it seemed he resisted her just fine. Except, maybe he’d finally stopped resisting, at least to a point. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to make you something each week. Maybe just two portions? Like two cupcakes? Or two cookies, or—”
“You don’t have to twist my arm.”
As if she even could. She glanced at his thick wrist, then at his broad hand and long fingers, his hard knuckles. His hands were big and capable and, compared to hers, so much stronger.
Thinking about the differences in their sizes had her tingling in places inappropriate to the dinner table.
While they ate, she continued to silently study him while thinking about the fact he’d defended her against Steve. She remembered Steve’s battered state and didn’t have a single ounce of pity for him. She also agreed with Armie that it’d be best to totally steer clear of him. It seemed Steve had been an even-worse choice than she’d already realized.
When his cell rang, he glanced at the screen, clicked a button and set it facedown on the table.
Merissa just knew it was a woman trying to reach him.
A second later, an incoming text dinged. Again he glanced at it, then disregarded it.
Peeved, Merissa said, “If you want to reply—”
“I don’t.” He tipped up his glass and finished off his tea. “Perfect meal. Thank you.”
Still nettled, but knowing she had no right to be, she followed his lead and let it go. “You’re welcome.” She started to stand.
“Rissy.”
Her gaze lifted to his.
“There was something else I wanted to talk about.”
Sensing his seriousness, she sank back into her seat. The dishes could wait. “Okay.”
“You’re a few years younger than me, so you probably don’t remember, if you were even aware at the time, but when I was eighteen, I got into some trouble.”
She fiddled with her fork. “I remember there was something going on, but I don’t think I ever knew the details. I asked Cannon a few times but he always avoided a straight answer.”
Armie stared right at her, into her eyes, almost as if he needed the connection. “He would have protected you from the ugly details.”
Ugly details? Merissa didn’t look away. “Whatever it is,” she told him with certainty, “it couldn’t have been that bad.”
He gave her a cross look. “Because your brother is still my friend?”
“No.” She took in his careful expression, saw the hurt and loved him all the more. “Because I know you’re a really good man. Everyone knows you are. No, don’t shake your head at me, Armie Jacobson. It’s true. How you are with the kids at the rec center, how you back up your friends, men and women alike. How you always defend the underdog, how you treat people in general. If you made a mistake when you were eighteen, well, that was a long time ago. It doesn’t matter anymore.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. It matters a lot now that I’m going into the SBC.”
“Why does the SBC change anything?”
“Because I’m in the limelight and certain people are likely to notice.”
That didn’t make any sense to Merissa. “Who will notice? And why will they care?” This was why he’d always avoided advancing? Because he didn’t want to be recognized?
Armie continued to watch her, his expression intent and somehow fatalistic, as if he thought she might begin to hate him at any minute.
She pushed back her chair and stood. “Tell me what happened so I can prove you’re wrong.”
He stood, too, although more slowly. His jaw worked; his face tightened. Merissa wanted to go to him, hold him and assure him that no matter the problem, it didn’t matter, not to her. But he looked so deliberately remote, she wasn’t sure if he’d welcome her touch or reject her.
“I was accused of rape.”
That stark admission was so ugly, so unreal, it landed between them like a thunderclap. Merissa took an involuntary step back. Almost immediately she surged forward again. “That’s insane!” She grabbed a fistful of his shirt. “Who accused you?”
Surprise flickered over his features, then settled into a curious, cautious frown. “Does it matter who?”
“Of course it does, because she’s a liar!” She leaned into him, eye to eye. “Who?”
Looking very uncertain, he scratched his neck. “You’re sure she’s lying?”
“Don’t be stupid.” She gave him a push that didn’t budge him at all. “You’re no more a rapist than I am.”
His lips twitched, not so much with a smile as with relief. And maybe some confusion, as if her reaction had thrown him. “No, I’m not.”
“Give me a name.”
With a halfhearted shrug, he said, “Lea Baley. But you wouldn’t know her since she’s a few years older than me.”
“So why did she accuse you?”
He made a face. “Sorry, Stretch, but she’s never really shared her reasons with me.”