Rory did none of those things. “I borrowed some clothes if that’s okay.”
Dalton spared her a glance. “Anything I have is yours, so no worries.” He slipped on a pair of flannel pants—he’d gone commando, no surprise—and a white T-shirt.
The man rocked a plain white tee like no one’s business. She could see the muscles in back ripple. The flex of his arms showed off those biceps, triceps and forearms. Not to mention his shoulders seemed nearly as wide as the doorframe.
“While I love how you’re lookin’ at me, sugarplum, I don’t think I’m up to takin’ you for a tumble.”
She saw he’d been watching her in the mirror. “I was just admiring you.” She walked to him and wrapped her arms around his middle, resting her chin on his shoulder. “No pressure to get naked with me. But I won’t hide my lustful thoughts from you either.”
Dalton lightly brushed his lips over hers, and said, “I love you. It’s there. All the time. Like your lust. And I won’t hide it from you or anyone else either.” He planted a chaste kiss on her forehead and grabbed her hand. “Watch some mindless TV with me?”
“Sure.”
In the living room he flipped on the TV and stretched out on the couch. He patted the cushion and she stretched out in front of him so their bodies touched from head to toe.
He wasn’t the guy who clicked through channels. He picked a channel and stayed there. Some sitcom was on but Rory had no idea which one and she doubted Dalton would know either.
Talk to me. Please.
Rory felt his lips on her crown. The random kisses and constant caresses were the only sign of normalcy in him. She had no idea how much time had passed and she’d started to drift off when he spoke.
“The funeral is Friday.”
Her tongue seemed frozen.
“Will you come with me?” he asked softly.
“Of course.”
“Did that just sound like I asked you on a date to my father’s funeral?”
“No.” Rory rolled over and looked into his eyes, repeating, “No. We’re beyond dating anyway.” She placed her hand on his heart and snuggled into him.
A moment later he said, “It was seriously f**kin’ bizarre today. Even now I can’t believe it’s happening.” He talked in a monotone, detailing the events. She remained still, tucked against him, her thumb sweeping back and forth over his pectoral.
“After the meeting with the pastor at the apartment we went to the funeral home.” A shudder worked through him. “Creepy f**kin’ place. Since my dad had made arrangements beforehand, it was just some weird formality. Like if there were additional charges who’d pay for them and all that bullshit. I mean, what kind of charges can a dead guy rack up?”
She barely stopped herself from flinching at his flip response.
“So then this mortician asks if we want to see him, since there wouldn’t be visitation.”
“What’d you say?”
“Brandt turned green like he was gonna pass out. Tell shook his head. But I…” He swallowed hard. “I said yes.”
Oh, baby, no.
“Sounds f**kin’ horrible, but I had to see him for myself. That he really was dead, not just playin’ some big goddamned joke on us, to see if we’d mourn him when he was gone. And how f**kin’ pathetic is it that’s even a possibility? That he’s such a mean bastard he might actually do something like that?” He took a breath and exhaled with frustration. “So I followed the guy back to the viewing room or whatever the f**k it was. And it smelled…” Dalton shuddered again. “I don’t even wanna talk about or think about that. Anyway, there he was, on a steel table, just like on TV, with a sheet covering him. Only part of him I could see was his head. And even though I felt like I was gonna throw the f**k up, I got close enough to look at him. Really look at his face. His skin was this pasty gray, but it was him. The only thing I could think of was he carried that goddamned sneer of his into death. So I got the hell outta there. I don’t even remember what I said to Brandt and Tell. I just know when they dropped me off the first thing I did was crack open the scotch.”
“I think it’s good you got a final look at him. You’ll never have to wonder.”
“Except wonder what the f**k is wrong with me.”
“Dalton—”
“I felt nothin’ when I looked at him, Rory. Nothin’. Not sadness or anger or even relief. What kind of cold bastard does that make me?”
Her heart was breaking for him but she managed to keep her voice from cracking. “Sweetheart, you’re in shock, okay? Give yourself a break. It’s only been about twelve hours since you found out.”
“So this next stage. Am I supposed to cry?”
Tread lightly. “I think so. Why?”
“What if I don’t? Does that make me an unfeeling bastard? Especially when after Luke died and all that shit went down I swore the man would never make me cry again.”
“Everyone grieves in a different way. You won’t grieve for him like you did your brother. And your brothers won’t grieve the same way you do either.”
He remained quiet, but tense. The way he rubbed her back fluctuated, too, between lazy and fast. Then he quit touching her entirely.
“I didn’t expect my mom to be upset,” he said after a bit. “Brandt called her and he said she started crying so hard he couldn’t understand her. I guess Dad’s girlfriend had a hard time too. Then she asked if she could sit with the family during the service and how the hell are we supposed to make that decision? My mom was married to him for forty years. By all rights she should get the goddamn sympathy from people, not some do-gooder chick Casper picked up in church. So see? I hear myself say shit like that and I feel like an ass**le.”
“Dalton. It doesn’t make you an ass**le if that’s how you feel.”
“And I really don’t wanna talk about this. I don’t. Knocking back the scotch did shut off the goddamned voices in my brain. I just wanted to pass out. Wake up hung-over as shit tomorrow because then at least I’d feel something.”
Rory placed her fingers over his lips and tilted her head back to look at him.
But his eyes were squeezed shut.
“Maybe we should down that bottle of scotch.”
He smiled slightly and her hand fell away.
Then those blue eyes were open, open in so many ways.