A swallow stuck in her throat. The only thing he was mixing up was the neat edge of carpet beneath his boots. He rocked on the molding between the hardwoods and the bedroom, the rubber-soled toes smashing the fibers with each lift of his heels.
Why did he insist on disturbing the carpet? Couldn't he see the uniformity of the vacuum lines, how the threads lifted in one-foot rows of symmetry? Her walk to the bed had followed the outskirt of the small room. She’d hopped the lines easy enough, leaving four tiptoed indentations she would comb after he left.
Fuck, she was doing it again. She pinched the bridge of her nose. The carpet didn't need to be perfect. She wasn't perfect.
He shrugged off the shirt and tossed it on the floor, flattening two rows.
Her stomach clenched, but she forced herself to look at the disorder, to accept it. “It's better without lights.”
“No, it isn't.” He bent to remove his boots, trampling more fibers. “What if I trip in the dark and put an eye out?”
What a joke. The floor had been spotless before he arrived. Besides, “You don't need eyes for this.” She shaped her mouth into a smile, lifting a shoulder. Did he notice the hollowness in her movements? What if he gave her an ultimatum about the lights or said something hateful? Did he have a cruel side?
Fat, worthless cunt.
When are you going to do something about your udders and schedule a boob job?
You're a fucking head case. Just like your mother.
She bent her fingers and cracked each knuckle in order. Index, middle, ring, pinkie. Zach wasn't him.
As he watched her knuckle-cracking ritual, lines formed in his brow. He should've been used to it by now, but something was off. He had never put this much focus on her quirks.
Finally, he blinked away, pushed his jeans and briefs to his ankles, and stepped from the unfolded mess. Pale skin smoothed over a narrow thirty-something physique. He scratched his flat stomach, eyes on hers, his partial erection hanging long and lean like the rest of him. He was attractive in a nonthreatening, easy-to-please manner. And he seemed to like her in a way that hardened his cock. A tingling awoke between her legs and fanned heat through her body.
But the light remained on. He touched the switch, staring at it as if he were asking it useless questions.
Her palms grew sticky and hot. For six months, he'd delivered her supplies, brought in her mail, taken her to bed, and left with her shipments. If she had trash, he would kindly drop it at the curb. He didn't make demands, express opinions, or try to complicate the routine. However, their unspoken arrangement had already extended twice as long as the previous delivery guys.
She knew what came next, and her gut twisted. “Just say it, Zach.”
His attention shifted to the hem of her dress where it covered her thighs, roamed over her chest, and rested on her eyes. “I want to see you. Just once with the lights on and your clothes off.”
A cringe jerked her shoulders, and her tongue thickened with all the wrong things to say. He waited for a response, one she knew she'd fuck up. She raised her chin. “I like it dark.” For twenty minutes, every Tuesday and Friday.
His jaw stiffened, and he averted his eyes.
An empty feeling gutted the pit of her stomach. Please, don't leave. He was her only tether to the outside world, but she needed to nip this desperation for his company. Distancing herself kept her safe in her self-made asylum.
She attacked the middle joints of her fingers, synchronizing her exhales with each flex and pop. It took twenty-four minutes for the gas to redissolve into the joint fluid. If she continued cracking at this rate, she'd run out of knuckles. She really needed a better distraction.
His gaze flitted around the room, never settling on one thing for long...until something behind her gave him pause. What was he looking at? She followed his line of sight to the blacked-out window.
Oh God, no. Stinging heat crawled over her cheeks. If he opened the shade, the absolute terror and despair waiting on the other side would find her. It would liquefy her bones and seal up her throat until she had no control, no power to stop it.
His sigh penetrated the clamor in her head. “All right.” He flicked the switch and smothered her storm with blackness.
A gust of relief freed her lungs and loosened her fists. Jesus, she needed to stop spazzing about what-ifs. She didn't want to be this scared little mouse trapped in her cage. What if Dr. Michaels was right? If she let the panic in, would it really show her a way out?
A shiver lifted the hairs on her arms. Yeah, right. Screw the free world.
She clung to the sound of Zach's footfalls and rationalized his tracks on the carpet as a form of therapy. She was supposed to challenge the anxiety, vary the landscape. He helped with that, even if he didn't know it.