Damn.

After enduring a several weeks’ long “Cain drought,” the image before me makes my mouth water. There he lays, in all his glory—mussed hair, bare-chested, wearing nothing but tattered blue jeans and glasses. Glasses? I didn’t know he wore glasses, but damn if they don’t look sexy as hell.

Papers litter his stomach and the floor, and a half-dozing Biz is curled up into his side with an ear cocked up and sleepy eyes. Cain’s eyes, on the other hand, are shut tight. The steady rise and fall of his chest is mesmerizing, and my mind wanders to a day not so long ago where I lay in the crook of his arm, my ear to his chest, listening to the pulsing of his heart. I swear I can almost hear it now.

My eyes dance over his skin like fingers lightly brushing a path. My fingers itch to grab and tug his hair. My lips crave to kiss him … everywhere.

I reach the couch and give Biz a tiny scratch between his ears, and he settles back into his spot. Cain shifts his hips to accommodate for Biz, and his lashes flutter as his arm lifts and curls behind his head. Even from behind his lenses, I can count the rows of eyelashes that frame his emerald eyes. That’s right, the man has rows of lashes, thick enough to be the envy of every woman.

I place my rent check on the table and slowly lift the errant sheets of paper off his stomach. A quick hand grabs my wrist before I pull away, and I gasp, butterflies fluttering up my throat.

“It’s five to ten for breaking and entering, Tink. Hand me my phone so I can call the fuzz,” he says with a smirk. He chuckles under his breath when I pull free from his grasp.

“I most certainly will not get your phone, and I hardly believe I’d get ten years for walking into an unlocked house, with a barely closed door.” I release the papers and place my hands on my hips as they flutter to my feet.

“Maybe not, but I have every intention of crying rape.” His eyes dance with laughter, then he turns his attention to Biz. He yanks the dog’s ear and narrows his eyes. “Where were you on that one, Biz? She could have been a masked murderer, ya useless hound.”

“Aw, don’t be so tough on him.” I pout and give Biz a gentle pat.

Cain swings his legs to the floor and sits up, placing the dog in his lap. “He doesn’t like those pansy ass scratches, girl. This guy is a warrior.”

I giggle at the comparison. Biz, a warrior? Ha!

“Whatever,” I laugh, with a wave of my hand.

“Tell her, Biz. I don’t like it soft; I like it—” Cain points to Biz.

“Ruff!”

“To hell with smooth, give it to me—” He points again.

“Ruff!”

I’m laughing so hard at their little performance, my cheeks hurt from smiling, and I can’t catch my breath. The laughter dies down and a silence filled with longing takes its place.

“I like the glasses,” I whisper.

He smiles and scratches his head. “I usually wear contacts. My lashes brush against the glasses, and it drives me fucking crazy. I wear them around the house sometimes, though. I planned on reading a little for work before watching the LSU game, and, well, you see how that turned out.”

I plop down on his coffee table and face him, our knees almost touching. My breath catches as I watch him watch me. The want, the longing for his touch is as strong as it’s ever been, maybe even more with his recent absence.

“I miss you,” I breathe out before my filter catches the confession.

“Yeah,” he whispers with a cringe.

I wait for him to say more, I wish for it, but he remains silent. I pick up my check off the table and hand it to him. He takes it from me and taps the paper onto his other fingers, his gaze never leaving his hands.

“I’m taking Lily and Gage to the movies tonight … you should come. We could stuff their faces with an obnoxious amount of candy and sit back and watch the mayhem ensue. It would be fun. Just like old times,” I say, my voice slowly fading away as I notice the way his face shuts down halfway through my request.

He shakes his head and grimaces. “I don’t think it’s a good idea, Celia.”

My shoulders slump in defeat. “Is this really how it has to be? Please, Cain. You’re my friend … my best friend. Can’t we move past this?”

He pulls off his glasses and tosses them beside me on the table, along with my rent check. He scrubs his face with his hands and inhales deeply. When his eyes meet mine, he grabs behind my knees and pulls me closer. Nose to nose. Eye to eye. We have nowhere to hide. I wish more than anything I didn’t have to.

“I love you, Celia. I’m in love with you.” A tear spills onto my cheek, and he winces. My reaction is a slap in his face, and I wish I could take it back. “But I kind of like me, too. And you’re fucking killing me here. So, no, we can’t move past this.” He spits out the last words in a mocking tone, and my heart clenches as I bite my lip to hold back a sob.

He stands and walks away, leaving me huddled over myself on his table. I try, but fail, to pull myself together, and a box of tissues hits the table beside me. I feel his presence beside me, rigid and looming, but I can’t bear to look up and see the disapproval in his eyes. I collect myself as best I can, snatching the pieces of my heart up off the floor and clutching them to my chest as I stand up to leave.

“I don’t mean to be hurtful, Celia, but I don’t know what you expect from me. I’m giving you what you want. I’m respecting your wishes. I only ask you to respect my feelings in return. Asking me to go back to the way things were before I loved you? It’s cruel and insulting.”

My body numbs exponentially with each word he utters, and I feel as if I’m a bystander watching the most horrific collision with no way to stop it. How could he think I don’t respect his feelings? Maybe it’s because I’ve never told him otherwise. What would be the point? My explanation would only cause him to shoulder part of the load that lies solely on my shoulders. The truth in no way changes the outcome. I still can’t love him the way I want to—the way he deserves. Telling him the truth only unburdens my soul, and what’s the point in that? Guilt and I are long-time friends—this is merely another link in a seemingly endless chain.

He lifts the envelope containing my rent check. “Thank you for bringing this to me. But I’ve spoken with Adam, and he’s agreed to collect your rent from now on. I think it’s best.”

I gather my purse off the floor and clutch it to my stomach. “I understand. I’m sorry for bothering you,” I whisper as I turn to leave, shuffling my feet forward with every bit of energy I can muster.

I reach the door and grab the knob to close it shut. Cain calls my name before I click it into place. I open it just a fraction—enough to see him standing there, hands fisted in his pockets, a pained expression etched on his face.

“Just so you know, Tink, I miss the fuck out of you, too.”

I should be happy to know I’m not alone in this. It should ease the ache to know he’s hurting the same as me, but that’s not the way it works. As another tear splashes onto my cheek, what’s left of me unravels for the hurt I’ve caused.

“Hello, Lucas.”

“Are you going to keep your promise?”

“I try to keep my promise every day. But I need your cooperation to make it happen.”

He’s tuned me out before I start the second sentence. My answer is as repetitive as his question. We dance this dance over and again, never changing, never wavering from the script we’ve set.

“I’ve brought something for you today,” I say with as much cheer as I can muster.

“Oh?”

I place the iPod and headphones on the table between us, and Lucas stares at it expectantly. “Some people find music drowns out some of the … noise in their head. I’ve loaded mostly classical music so there would be no extraneous voices. I’d like for you to try it. It could help.”