Page 114 of Stranger to Love

I found my voice, a raspy, playful smirk colouring my tone as I mimicked her earlier confidence. "So... like what you see, Dr. Carter?"

I felt her grin against my skin, her teeth grazing the shell of my ear. "I like everything I see, Alex. Though I must say, the ballerinas on your wall really add a certain... je ne sais quoi to the view."

I let out a breathless laugh, turning in her arms to face her. She just made everything so fucking easy. I was standing there completely bare, pinned between the door and the most formidable woman I knew, and for the first time, I didn’t feel fucking small. I felt seen.

She didn't push it further, knowing the exhaustion was waiting just behind the adrenaline. She just gave my hip a final, affectionate squeeze before handing my underwear back with a wink.

"Dress, darling," she murmured, her eyes dancing with a mix of heat and tenderness. "I would like to ensure you and your father have a hot meal before we settle for the night."

I pulled on my clothes, then wrapped my arms around her neck for a quick, lingering kiss. "How are you so perfect?" I whispered.

Carrie hid her smile, though it glimmers in her eyes as she tucked a stray hair behind my ear. She was fucking adorable sometimes. "You are clearly overtired, Alex," she replied, her voice a low, melodic hum. "Because I am in no way perfect. But you? You’re doing a very convincing impression of it right now."

I chuckled, my heart doing those fucking stupid, frantic flips again. Every time she said something like that, I felt like I was being reconstructed from the inside out. I kissed her one last time, a silent promise of everything I wanted to tell her when I wasn't so bloody exhausted, and then we headed downstairs.

The house was quiet, the air thick with the kind of heavy stillness that only comes after a hospital vigil. Dad was already on the sofa, his head tilted back, almost asleep before the shitty tv.

"Sit," Carrie commanded, pointing toward the sofa as we entered the living room. "I’m making dinner."

I stopped in my tracks, my old instincts for self-reliance flaring up. "Carrie, come on. You’ve done enough. I can help, or at least show you where the—"

Oh fuck. Before I could finish the sentence, Carrie’s hand was on the back of my neck. It wasn't rough, but it was firm, a sudden and electric pressure that made my breath fucking hitch. She guided me backward into the shadows of the hallway, away from my dad’s dozing form, and leaned in until her lips were brushing the shell of my ear.

Motherfucker.

"Darling," she whispered, her tone dropping into that dark, velvety register that made my knees turn to water. "If you keep protesting against my help, I will be forced to remind you what happens to brats who don't know when to be quiet."

I shivered, my back hitting the hallway wall as she crowded into my space. Holy shit.

"I have forgiven your swearing today under the circumstances," she continued, her breath hot against my skin. "But if you keep whining, I’ll be forced to do something about it regardless of the situation. Am I clear?"

I swallowed hard, my pulse fucking racing for an entirely different reason now. The exhaustion was still there, but it was been momentarily eclipsed by the absolute, commanding heat radiating off her. She wasn't just my anchor; she was still the woman who knew exactly how to fucking handle me.

"Crystal," I rasped.

"Good girl." She gave the nape of my neck a final, possessive squeeze before stepping back, her expression shifting back to that of the calm, capable Dr. Carter as if nothing had fucking happened. "Now, go sit with your father. I believe I saw some pasta in the pantry that's screaming for my attention."

Jesus fuck. I stumbled back into the lounge, dazed and completely defeated, and sank onto the sofa next to Dad. He didn't even open his eyes, just murmured, "She’s a keeper, that one."

I could only nod, staring toward the kitchen where the woman of my dreams—and my most delicious fucking nightmares—was currently boiling water in a silk lounge suit.

The dinner had been a minor fucking miracle. I didn’t know how she did it—our cupboards are usually a graveyard of half-empty spice jars and questionable tins—but Carrie had emerged from the kitchen with three steaming bowls of pasta that actually tasted like something from a fucking bistro. She’d sat there, poised and calm, and watched us like a hawk until every last bite was gone.

Now, after a series of awkward rotations through our cramped, steam-fogged bathroom, the reality of the sleeping arrangements was finally staring me in the fucking face.

I stood in the doorway of my room, staring at my bed. It was a standard single—narrow, pushed against the ballerina-clad wall, and definitely not designed for two grown arse fucking women, let alone one who carried herself like she required a king-sized suite at the Savoy.

"Carrie..." I started, rubbing the back of my neck. "I can sleep on the sofa. Really. This is... it’s tiny. You’re going to be so uncomfortable."

Carrie didn't even look up from where she was neatly folding her silk robe over the back of my desk chair. She was in a silk nightgown now, her skin glowing softly in the dim light of my bedside lamp.

"Alex," she said, her voice trailing off into a warning hum. "What did we say about protesting?"

"I'm just being practical," I muttered, though my heart was already starting to fucking hammer at the thought of her actually staying.

"And I am being final," she replied. She walked over to the bed and peeled back the duvet, gesturing for me to get in first. "Wall side, darling. I’m not having you fall out in the middle of the night."

I scrambled over the covers, pressing my back against the cold wall to make as much fucking room as possible. Carrie slid in beside me, and the bed groaned under the unaccustomed weight. We were close—impossibly fucking close. Every inch of my side was pressed against hers, from my shoulder down to my ankles.