Page 24 of Wine & Dine

“I miss my mother,” she says into my chest, and then the real shaking begins. Soul-rattling sobs occur against my chest. Her hands come up to cover her face, and I struggle to balance the umbrella over her while keeping my coat on her shoulders and my arm around her back.

“Shh,” I soothe. “It’s okay to miss her.” I don’t know how to comfort her other than to kiss her rain-soaked hair. Waterworks on a woman is my weakness, but she’s not using them to play me. She’s not crying because we’re breaking up or I canceled a date. She’s legit crying over something that has nothing to do with me—and I’m heartbroken for her.

The rain continues, and the pelting spray near my ankles has soaked my pant legs. Dolores continues to shiver and sob against me, and I realize I need to do something.

“Fuck it,” I say as I collapse the umbrella, feeling the downpour cascade over both of us. I scoop her up and jostle her once to get a better hold on her. “Hold on, sweetheart,” I tell her, and she wraps her arms around my neck. Her cold nose nuzzles against my skin.

I walk us to the waiting car and set her down to guide her inside. The second I close the door, I pull her back to me, tugging her onto my lap and tucking her head against my neck. I bark out my address to the driver. Screw my day. I’ll handle the production plant later.

With Dolores on my lap, her wet attire seeps into my dress shirt and suit pants. A chill comes over me, but it’s nothing compared to the cold of her skin. Her nose is ice against my neck. I reach for her hands lying limp in her lap.

“You’re freezing,” I say, kissing her forehead. She doesn’t respond as the tears continue. Her head remains lax against my shoulder.

Once we arrive at the condo building, I lead her to my door. It’s an awkward walk as I keep both my arms around her, and half the time, I have my lips pressed to her temple. My mind sends mental messages to hers.

Don’t cry.

I’m here for you.

It’s going to be okay.

As we enter my place, I take my coat from her shoulders. The suit might be ruined, but it isn’t my primary concern. Dolores needs warmth. I drape my suit jacket over a stool in the kitchen and guide her back to my bedroom. We walk directly into my bathroom.

Although she’s still crying, she’s unaware. Silent tears are the worst.

“You need a shower to warm up. I’m going to undress you,” I warn her. “No funny business, okay? Don’t be throwing yourself at me,” I tease, hoping to lighten the mood. Hell, even a fake smile would be something, but she doesn’t crack one bit. Her eyes remain downcast as do her lips, which are almost purple.

I reach for the faucet and turn the shower on hot, hoping to steam up the room before she enters the stall. Leaving the shower door open, I tend to her clothing. The heavy, water-laden sweater slaps on the tile floor at our feet. That thing must go. Next, I slide her shirt up her torso. Through her soaked bra, I see dark nipples peaked from the cold. I drag my eyes away. There’s nothing sensual about the moment, but my dick isn’t getting the memo.

My fingers find the button of her jeans, and I unsnap, then unzip. The skinny jeans are even skinnier when soaked and adhering to her hips as I struggle to remove them. Eventually, she helps me by leaning against the counter and kicking off her booties. The suede shoes are destroyed. Silently, she pulls off her socks and then takes over to finish removing her pants.

Holding out my hand, I wiggle my fingers for hers. When she places her hand in mine, I tug her forward.

“No funny business,” I say, reassuring her I’m not coming onto her. I’d love nothing more than to bury myself inside her in hopes to distract her, but it doesn’t feel appropriate. She nods, acknowledging she heard me. I step behind her and unclasp her bra. I don’t look as I push it forward, and she lowers her arms to release the material. Her own fingers curl at the edge of her underwear, and she slips it downward. I back up, allowing her space. I tell myself not to look, but I can’t help myself. My eyes are drawn to her.

Her backside is perfectly heart-shaped like I called it before. A tramp stamp covers her lower back, something her rebellious self probably did in college. No one gets tattoos there anymore, but my fingers twitch to outline the design. With a hand on the curving ink, I gently press her forward. I swear I won’t look at any other part of her. I want her under the spray so she’ll warm up.

“I’ll be right outside the bathroom door,” I tell her, letting her know I’m not leaving while still offering her some privacy. She doesn’t look back. She doesn’t respond. The only sounds are the rush of water from the showerhead and the click of the glass door cutting her off from me.