Page 98 of Unmanageable

“It’s not stupid,” I whisper into her hair, pulling her entirely into my lap. “I’ve got you, Scottie-girl. You’re fine. You’re safe.”

I hold her tight enough to let her know she’s not going to fall through the floor, tight enough to keep the nightmares from getting back into the room.

Every time she tries to pull back, to clear her throat and put her agent mask back on, her breath hitches again and she just digs her face right back into my collarbone.

Slowly, the heavy gasps start to slow down. Her grip on my shirt relaxes slightly, her fingers loosening from the fabric, her breathing turning into long sighs that hit my neck in warm, damp bursts.

“Finny?”

“Yeah?”

“My nose is running on your shirt.”

A soft, quiet laugh leaks out of my chest. “I don’t care. The shirt is already ruined from the bar.”

She lets out a tiny, exhausted sound that might be a chuckle, her forehead resting against my collarbone as she shifts her weight.

I shift, sliding my back down the headboard until we’re both lying flat on the mattress, still fully dressed in our clothes.

Scottie doesn’t move away. She stays curled up against my side, her head resting squarely in the hollow of my shoulder, her left arm draped across my chest.

I look up at the cracked plaster ceiling of the motel room, my left hand resting on her hip. My right hand still throbs, the knuckles swollen and stiff, but as I look down at the red hair spilled across my chest, the ache doesn’t matter at all.

27

Scottie

The gray light of the morning filters through the gap in the beige curtains, cutting a sharp line across the comforter.

Beside me, Cash is breathing in a slow, deep rhythm that vibrates straight through the mattress. His left arm is slung over me, a solid weight pinning me to the bed.

The memories of last night hit my brain in a violent, unorganized rush—the smack of his fist against the blonde guy’s nose, the dark parking lot, and then the motel bathroom floor. The soap. The small white towels. The words that came out of my mouth before I could stop them.

A cold knot of awkwardness instantly drops into my stomach.

I stiffen realizing I spent last night unloading a years-old trauma into a client’s chest. It lacks basic dignity.

I reach down carefully, my fingers trembling as I try to lift Cash’s forearm off my hip without waking him. I need to get to my own room across the hall and put on a blazer that signals I am a professional who does not weep on the floor.

“If you move any slower, Scottie, you’re going to start growing moss.”

He doesn’t open his eyes, but his arm tightens, pulling me backward three inches until my spine is pressed firmly against his warm chest.

“I have emails to check, Cash,” I say, my voice sounding tight and brittle.

“I have a desk here, too,” he mutters, his chin brushing the top of my head.

He finally opens his eyes, those clear, dark gold-flecked circles looking right down at the side of my face. He notices the tightness in my shoulders instantly. The lazy morning smirk drops off his face.

“Scottie.” His fingers gently catch my chin, turning my face until I have no choice but to meet his gaze.

His knuckles are swollen, the skin red and slightly split from last night, but his touch is incredibly soft. Too soft. It feels tentative, like he’s handling a cracked vase that might shatter if he breathes too hard.

“You okay?”

I swallow hard, the pity in his eyes making my defense walls instantly slam down. “I’m fine, O’Connell. And honestly, stop looking at me like I’m a wounded bird. I shouldn’t have dumped all that on you last night. It’s an old story. It’s handled.”

“It’s not an old story if it keeps you awake at night,” he says gently.