Enjoying the weight of her body, he rested his temple against the side of her head. His hands stroked up her arms. “Why did you call Damian instead of me?”

“Less risk.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Damian is just a friend.”

“So what am I?”

“More.” She turned around. Her eyes misted. Behind the unshed tears, conflict lurked. “What I feel for you scares me. I’m not sure I can give you what you want. What you need. What you deserve. I just might not have it in me.”

“Don’t shut me out. Talk to me.” Conor wiped the pad of his thumb under her eye, catching a tear before it rolled down her cheek. “Don’t be afraid to tell me anything.”

Doubt and fear flickered in her eyes.

“I mean it.”

“I know you do.” She stared at the center of his chest for a minute, her blond lashes concealing any change in her emotions. “I’ll try, but it’s not going to happen overnight. I’m used to being alone.” Her voice was hoarse, as if her words were sandpaper in her throat.

Conor took the admission as progress—and accepted it as enough for one night.

“OK. Baby steps then.” He grinned. “Do you need help getting the rest of your clothes off? Please say yes.”

The corner of her mouth tilted upward. “I think I can manage.”

“Too bad.” He let out a long-suffering sigh. Her eyes didn’t look so bleak. “What can I do for you?”

“I could use some ibuprofen and ice.”

“Have you eaten?”

She hesitated, her eyelids dropping like shutters. “No.”

“Do you want to tell me what happened to dinner?”

“Not right now.”

“OK. Later then, but you’re not getting out of talking to me.” He kissed her forehead. “Why don’t you change, and I’ll see what I can rustle up in your kitchen.”

She backed away. “There’s not much in there.”

“I like a challenge.”

Kirra followed Louisa into the bedroom. Conor went into the kitchen, which was mostly empty. He sniffed a quart of skim milk. Sour. He emptied it in the sink and tossed the carton in the trash. Two containers of moldy Chinese takeout followed. He set cheese and bread on the counter and rooted through the cabinets until he found a frying pan. A few minutes later, butter sizzled around a grilled cheese sandwich, and the kitchen filled with the scent. In the pantry, he found a can of tomato soup.

He put the soup and sandwich out on the island. With the dog trailing behind, Louisa returned in a baggy sweatshirt, yoga pants, and thick socks. She eased onto a stool. Conor watched, pleased, as she ate half the sandwich. Chewing looked painful, and she moved on to the soup. She consumed most of it before she pushed the bowl aside.

He handed her two tablets and a glass of water. “You should get into bed.”