There was a very distinct part of him that wanted, at the look that Charlotte gave him, to close the distance between them and do what his daydreams had dictated all those long days. But his pride, which had never failed him in the past, failed him today as it kept him standing, his eyes searing into her like the gaze of a hungry raptor. He almost lost his grip on that bitterness when she tugged out the repaired scarf, images of that night with her in his bed assaulting him with such force that for a moment his vision tunneled.

Snapping his head towards the kitchen, he marched towards the fridge, yanked out a Newcastle, popped the top and took a long, much needed draw of the dark liquid. He followed that by wiping the back of his hand over his mouth and barking a laugh at the back of Charlotte's head.

"Sure, Dupree. We'll just curl up on the couch, watch a brilliant match - Tottenham's not even playing today," he couldn't resist pointing out, "and let bygones be bygones, yeah?" The bitterness was harsher on his tongue that that of the hops in his beer. In all the years that he'd been on God's green earth, he had never allowed his emotions to so fully control his words and actions.

He knew how much effort she had to have had expended to have shown up on his doorstep; just how much pride she had to have stuffed to even be opening her mouth and speaking to him. Hell, she'd even gone to the extent of dressing up for him.

Not that she'd had to. He'd find her sexy in an old potato sack.

"You really do beat all," he added as he leaned his shoulder against he doorjamb of the kitchen door. "What I can't figure out, Dupree," he added in the trappings of an afterthought, "is why you'd descend from your castle to muck about with someone as common as me. You had to know I'd not be groveling at your feet. And don't give me some blather about apologizing for being frigid. I won't buy it. Not when I gave of myself fully and completely."