Pocketful of Sand
Page 26

My stomach clenches and I turn toward the offending sound, debating whether to answer it or pretend I’m already in bed. I tiptoe to the door, pressing my ear to it so that I can hear if my late-night visitor leaves. I hear a subtle scraping sound, as though a rough palm is rubbing the wood between us.
“Eden,” comes the sandpaper voice. I don’t know how he would expect me to hear him. Maybe he doesn’t. Maybe he knows he shouldn’t be here and he’s regretting coming.
Or maybe he’s sober tonight. And maybe this is the Cole I thought I knew.
“Please be awake.” There’s a quiet desperation to his plea. It punches through the door and into my chest like a fist. “I need to talk to you.”
I shouldn’t even consider opening the door. I should write him off as a lost cause and move on with my life. Go back to the way I was before I met him. But there’s a part of me that wants him to make this right, wants him to clear things up. Tell me I was wrong. Tell me he was wrong. To promise he’ll never do that again.
Something in me wants that badly. So, so badly.
It’s that part which shushes all the other voices and pushes my hand to reach for the lock.
I crack the door and peek out just enough to see Cole pulling his palm away–the soft rasping I heard. His eyes find mine and, even in the dark, I can see the cornucopia of emotions in them. Right now, they aren’t hooded. Right now, they aren’t hiding his thoughts from me. Right now, they’re open.
He’s open.
And that’s why I let him in.
I step back and he slides past me, not moving beyond the entryway. I close the door, crossing my arms over my chest as we stand watching each other.
“I know it’s late, but I wanted to talk to you. Alone.”
“Well, here I am. Talk,” I say, unable to keep all the bitterness from my tone.
Cole runs his hands through his chin-length hair, pushing dark blond strands away from his face. Thick stubble shadows his cheeks. He looks haggard, unkempt. Like he hasn’t slept since I saw him last. And maybe he hasn’t.
It’s only fair, I think childishly, since I haven’t slept much either.
He drops his hands like he just realized something, the familiar frown finally marring his smooth brow. “It’s cold in here.”
“It’s cold everywhere.”
He turns to look back over his shoulder. “There’s no fire.”
“No.”
I don’t add the Duh that I’m so waspishly thinking. I think the reason I’m inordinately aggravated is that I’m so glad he’s here, so happy that he’s sober and back to the Cole that I was growing so fond of. I shouldn’t feel this way. I should still be mad. But I’m not. Not really. Not nearly as mad as I am relieved that he came back. That he feels enough for me that he would experience regret over what happened.
“May I?” he asks, indicating the empty fireplace.
“I don’t have any wood.”
“I’ll be right back.”
He exits into the cold night and I wish for a second that I’d told him no. Just to keep him from walking out that door again. I’m beginning to hate it when he leaves. Things…this house…life feels better when he’s near.
Which is pure craziness.
Within five minutes, Cole is back, carrying an armful of wood–some big pieces, some little–through my door. “I had some for across the street,” he explains, making his way into the living room. He sets his load in front of the fireplace and deftly builds a fire. It’s lit and already starting to crackle within just a few minutes.
“You must’ve done that a lot,” I comment, curling up on the end of the sofa nearest the fire. I can already feel myself relaxing.
Cole shrugs. “Once or twice.” The curve to his lips is like chocolate for the eyes. It’s sweet and darkly sexy at the same time. Much like Cole himself.
Watching the flames, Cole stands, strips off his coat and lays it across the chair. Rather than taking a seat, though, he just returns to the fire, staring down into it like he can see the future. Or maybe the past.
He’s not too close. But he’s close enough. My whole being reacts to him. Pleasure, excitement, contentment, and curiosity are all swimming through my blood in equal measure.
The flicker of the fire highlights the angles and planes of his face–square chin, straight nose, high cheekbones, bold brow. He’s magnificent. It’s the one thing that never changes.
“I was seventeen when I met Brooke. She was fifteen. We were just kids. Stupid kids,” he begins, his voice a soothing vibration in the quiet. “I got a football scholarship to Texas Christian. That probably should’ve been the end of us, but she kept coming to visit on the weekends. I think she didn’t want to break up because I was her big-time college boyfriend. I think I didn’t break up because I was a guy. I could have my highschool sweetheart and the college girls, too, and no one would be the wiser. And that’s pretty much how it went. Until she got pregnant.” The silence is broken only by the hiss and spit of sap from the burning wood. “I married her. Because that’s what good guys from Texas do. At first it wasn’t too bad. She kept me on track with school. I graduated in three years. The coaches backed me when I told them I wanted to go out in the draft. Got picked second round. It was like a dream come true for me.” His tone is almost wistful as he speaks. “So, we packed up and moved out here to New England so I could play pro football. We set up house there once we found the perfect place to raise our little girl. Her name was Charity.” His voice cracks when he speaks it aloud.