Page 28 of Sinner’s Game

I frown, frustrated, and decide to take the plunge myself. “Can I ask you something?”

He shifts to face me, and although I know I must be imagining it, I think I see trepidation in his eyes. But when I look more closely, all I see is him looking at me. A trick of the light, I suppose.

“Ronan?”

“Yes. Of course. You know you can ask me anything.”

“You’ve started calling me angel. Why?”

He runs a hand through his hair, and I wonder if the question makes him uncomfortable.

“It’s no big deal,” I add quickly. “It’s only—well, you didn’t do that before I was—well, you know. Before that time when you rescued me.”

“No,” he says gently. “I suppose I didn’t. I’m sorry if you don’t like it. I don’t mean to be condescending or—”

“No! I like it. I mean, um, it’s nice. I was only wondering what made you start.”

“You did,” he says with the flicker of a smile. Then he continues before I have the chance to ask what he means. “You’d lost so much blood, and I was so worried about you. I was staying in your room at the hospital, and—”

“You stayed in my room?”

“The first night.”

“Why? The doctors told me that I was lucky. That you got me out in time.”

His shoulders rise and fall. “I guess I wasn’t ready to trust anyone other than myself. And you were sleeping. I wanted to make sure you had a familiar face when you woke up.”

“Oh.” My chest flutters from his words, and I have to stifle the urge to reach over and take his hand. “I—thank you. I didn’t know you’d done that.”

He shrugs as if it was nothing, but to me, it’s everything.

“I watched you,” he said. “You’d have a nightmare, and I’d hold your hand. Or you’d shift in bed, and I’d adjust your blanket. And every time I looked at you in that white hospital gown, with your hair on the white pillow and your skin so pale, I thought you looked like an angel. Beautiful and ethereal. Honestly, it scared me a little.”

“Scared?”

“Angels aren’t of this world. I was afraid the doctors were wrong, and I started talking to you. Talking to this angel in front of me and telling her to fight her way back. That we needed your sweetness here. With us.” He runs his fingers through his hair again, then shakes his head. “I sound like some maudlin teenager. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” I say, fighting tears. “And thank you.”

“What for?”

“Everything,” I say, even though the word really isn’t big enough.

For a moment, we simply look at each other. Then he clears his throat. “Listen, Brandy, about what happened at the wedding—”

I lift a hand, cutting him off. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not. I—I crossed a line.”

I lick my lips, turning away so that I’m looking out at the light shimmering on the ocean. I don’t want him to see the truth—and the hurt—on my face. Because those words sound remarkably like It wasn’t you; I was just drunk. “Like I said, it’s fine.” But, of course, it isn’t, and I should tell him that. It hurt the way he walked away, especially since he never walked back again or bothered to tell me why. “It’s fine,” I say again, underscoring the lie.

“Well. Okay, then.” He takes his hand away, and when I glance back, I see that he’s slipped it into his pocket.

“I saw you with that woman.” The moment the words leave my mouth, I want to kick myself. Not only is it none of my business, but I’m probably coming off as jealous. Which I’m not.

Except maybe I am. A little, anyway. And maybe a tiny bit hurt, too, that he’d rather hire a call girl than be with me. Which is completely stupid and hypocritical since he and all my friends know that I’m not wired for casual sex.

“What woman?”