Page 39 of Only and Forever
“Come on,” he says, turning and starting down the hallway. “I’ll show you your room.”
I follow him after a beat, warring with myself. I’m terrified to latch on to this level of kindness from someone I’m determined not to sleep with. But I’m sick to my stomach, knowing I made him feel bad.
“Viggo—”
“This,” he says, either not hearing me or, more likely, ignoring me, trying to push past the damage I’ve caused, “is your room. I’ll give you some space to check it out.”
I’ve just made it to the threshold when he turns and steps out at the same time I try to step in.
I’m a thick girl. I take up space in a doorway. And while Viggo’s lean, he’s broad—wide shoulders, wider stance—and he’s not turned sideways, unprepared for my entrance during his exit. His elbow knocks into my boobs, making me hiss in pain, sending me bumping back into the doorframe. I try to steady myself as I lurch sideways and trip over his foot.
Viggo lunges and wraps his hands around my shoulders to stop me from falling. “Shit. Lula, I’m sorry.”
Instinctively, I lift my shirt so I can see my stomach and check the state of my pod, which delivers insulin to my body, a welcome upgrade from my old pump and tubing setup. It could have come loose when we bumped torsos. Feeling along the adhesive, I’m relieved to find it’s still secure.
Viggo’s hands fall from my shoulders. “God, did I hurt you? Did I mess something up—”
I drop my shirt and put a hand on his mouth, which requires more of a reach than I’d like, reminding me how damn short I am and how tall he is. But I’m glad I’ve stopped him, that I have his attention. Viggo’s quiet, his eyes searching mine.
“You okay?” he asks against my fingertips. “I really am sorr—”
I press my fingers harder, and he sucks in a breath. It takes asecond for me to find my words, to orient myself. I’m not used to talking this way, and I’m definitely not used to someone like him standing so close, steadying me.
He smells like sweat and woodsy soap, a wisp of cinnamon sugar. His hard body presses right up against mine. My boobs are smooshed against his chest. His thigh is wedged between my legs. He stares down at me, jaw tight, as I lower my hand from his mouth, telling my body to calm the hell down. But it really doesn’t want to. It wants to sink into him, my fingers deep in his hair, my hips working against his.
Aching lust thuds, sharp and low, in my belly, right between my thighs. Viggo’s grip on my arms tightens a little, then slides down. His thumbs hit my elbow dimples and press, then circle, like he’s soothing me, maybe soothing himself, too.
“I’m okay. I just had to check my pod, because we bumped into each other and it could have made it come loose.”
His eyes search mine. “Your pod?”
“It’s the device that sends insulin to my body. So, pretty important.”
He swallows nervously. “And... it’s okay?”
“It’s okay.”
“I really am sorry,” he starts, but I interrupt him.
“Please stop apologizing. We bumped into each other, it was just an accident, and I’m fine.I’mthe one who should be saying sorry,” I tell him quietly. “I...” My voice sticks, and I force myself to swallow, to wet my throat and find my courage. “I’m sorry I didn’t... respond well to the brownies.”
Heat hits Viggo’s cheeks again. “Oh, it’s fine!” He steps back, shoving his hands in his pockets. The deprivation I feel, losing his touch, is concerning. “I get it. They looked like moose turds, honestly—”
“Stop.” I push off the threshold, get right in his space, and graba fistful of his shirt, because, dammit, he needs to listen to me. “Please just... let me apologize. I panicked, and I lied. Idolike brownies, and itwashelpful that you counted the carbs per serving, though they don’t even need to be low sugar; just knowing the carbs is enough, so I can bolus the right amount of insulin. I’m just... not used to people doing things like that, Viggo. It caught me off guard. I don’t think well on my feet. I do better with a laptop in front of me, time to figure out the right words, and... hell, I’m sucking at even that right now. So, just... please,please, promise you won’t take my fuckups personally. It’s me.I’mthe problem.”
Viggo grins. “We’re a Swiftie, are we?”
I narrow my eyes. “You are annoyingly good at deflecting.”
His grin deepens, but then it slips as he registers my undeterred gaze, pinning him in place. “I, uh... I just don’t want to make you uncomfortable,” he says. “I made those brownies because I wanted you to feel welcome. But I get that it was too much. I do that. I do too much. Iamtoo much—”
“It wasn’t.” I press my fist into his chest, right over his heart. “It wasn’t too much, andyou’renot too much. Don’t assume other people’s problems are an indictment of you. Don’t take on their shit, especially mine, and make it yours, or I swear to you, this arrangement is off.”
Viggo blinks at me like I’ve stunned him.
“I will get used to this... courtesy,” I tell him. “I will probably be awkward about it a lot of the time, but don’t you dare internalize that as anything to do with you, least of all anything bad or wrong. And I’ll try to get better at how I respond, okay?”
Viggo blinks at me some more, then finally opens his mouth, but just as I think he’s about to speak, something thuds inside the closet across the hallway, followed by a muffled curse.