A sob left her.
“Lucie? Baby?”
He hadn’t used that sweet, cajoling voice since he’d first brought her here. She didn’t think so, anyway. A lot of things were a blur. And she had to be imagining some things, right?
Because she couldn’t have called him Daddy.
Nope, that definitely didn’t happen.
No way. No how.
She curled in on herself, holding the sheets close.
Lord, how could she have embarrassed herself like that? She had this vague recollection about telling him she was a Little. Well, he’d probably realized something was going on when she’d demanded that he bring Ziggy too.
Please, let the ground open up and swallow me whole. Please.
“What’s wrong?”
A sob escaped her.
“Oh, Lucie. What is it?”
“I wet the bed,” she said in a small voice. “I’m sorry. I’ll get this all cleaned up. I’m so embarrassed and mortified. Please, just leave me alone.”
“Can’t do that, baby. Besides, you didn’t wet the bed.”
“What?” She turned to him. His face was mostly in shadow, though. “How do you know?”
“It doesn’t smell.”
What? Oh hell. It hadn’t even occurred to her that there was no smell.
“Then why are the sheets damp? Why am I?”
“Night sweats, baby. Your fever might have broken. Can I come closer now?”
She sniffled, and he walked over and grabbed the sheets from her. “I’m sorry I woke you.”
“Hush,” he replied firmly. “Let’s get you in the shower. I’ll wash these and put a new pair of sheets on. All right?”
“All right. Thank you. I’m sorry.”
“No more apologizing. Or I’ll need to get firm with you.”
After her shower, she brushed her teeth. There was a long T-shirt that she guessed must be one of his lying on the floor outside the door, and she put that on.
It came down to her knees and fell off one shoulder, but it covered her up.
She barely had the energy to make her way back to the bedroom, where he had the bed made up with fresh sheets. He turned as she came in, studying her.
“You’re done in.”
She was. She really, really was.
“I’ll get you some more water.” He left the room quickly.
With a sniffle, feeling sorry for herself, she walked over to the bed. She didn’t even have the energy to get in the bed. She just sort of fell forward, with her legs hanging off the side.
“Well, this is the perfect spanking position.”
There was an awkward pause, then he cleared his throat. “Let’s get you into bed.”
After tucking her into bed, he shocked her by leaning over and pressing his lips to her forehead. “Yep, fever’s broken.”
She stared up at him in surprise.
He stood, looking shocked as well. “Going back to bed. Tired. Drink your water.”
He left the room abruptly, leaving her staring after him.
And wishing for something she knew could never be.
She woke up some time later, her stomach rumbling. That was a good sign, right? It was now light out and she couldn’t hear any wind or rain.
Getting up, she moved into the bathroom and took care of business before brushing her teeth again. She looked down at herself. Maybe she could take another shower and put some actual clothes on.
By the time she’d showered and dressed, she was feeling half-human but also freaking exhausted. But she couldn’t really afford any more time in bed. And she couldn’t keep relying on Atticus’ hospitality. He’d gone above and beyond the call of duty. She could only guess how hard it had been for him having her here, considering he didn’t seem to like her all that much.
Except when he called her baby or little girl, or gave her one of those looks filled with warmth. She shook her head, unable to figure him out. She walked into the living room.
“Atticus?” She was grateful her throat was no longer sore.
She wondered where he was.
Meow. Meow.
“Princess Pickles!” She picked up her cat and hugged her. “Oomph, how heavy are you getting?” She had a feeling that Atticus wasn’t as annoyed by her cat as he let on and that he was feeding her. “You hussy.”
She wandered into the kitchen and grabbed a banana to eat. Probably a good idea to have something healthy. Walking around, she spotted a photo on a bookcase. It was of Atticus with a tall, thin woman with a shy smile.
Was she Atticus’ wife? A memory came back to her from the other night.
I’ve only ever spanked one woman. The only woman I’ve ever loved.
But where was she now? Maybe they were divorced, but she couldn’t see any woman being crazy enough to divorce Atticus.
Lucie studied the photo. They were on a beach somewhere. He was in a shirt and shorts while she wore a short white dress. Was it their wedding day? She picked it up to take a closer look.
“What are you doing?” he barked.
She jumped, then watched in horror as the photo frame slipped from her fingers and smashed to the ground, shattering.
Oh no. Oh no. Oh no.
She crouched down, feeling like she was going to vomit. She reached out to touch a piece of the broken frame. “I’m so sorry. I’ll fix it. I swear. I’m sorry.”
“Just leave it.”
She flinched at the harshness in his voice.
“I can fix it.”
“Leave it. Please.” The please was said in a tense voice. She stood and took a step back.
“I’m so sorry, Atticus.”
He nodded, staring down at the frame. A muscle in his jaw ticked.
“Was it . . . was she . . .”
“My wife,” he replied stiffly. “Gemma.”
“She’s beautiful.”
“Was,” he told her, not meeting her gaze. “She died three years ago. Car crash.”
“I’m so sorry.” She moved towards him, intending to touch him, but he stepped away from her.
The rejection hit her hard, but it was no less than she deserved. Here, he’d taken her into his house, looked after her, and what had she done? Snooped around, brought up painful memories, and smashed the photo frame that held a photo of his beloved wife.
“I’m so sorry,” she said again. “I think I should go home.”
He nodded. She let out a deep breath. Right. Time to go back home. She stared at him for a moment as he crouched over the broken frame.
And she just knew that any friendship they’d started to build had broken as well.
Chapter Six
“Lucie, you look like fucking shit,” Charlotte told her.
It usually made her giggle when Charlotte swore in her posh-sounding accent. Today, though, all she managed was a small smile.
“Is this about that broken photo frame? It was an accident, honey.”
“I still feel bad.”
“Well, you shouldn’t. You baked him muffins, and you made him a new frame. You didn’t mean to do it. Anyway, he sounds like a bit of a jerk.”
Charlotte never met Atticus when she sold him the cabin. Her real-estate agent handled everything.