Leave Me Breathless

by Jodi Ellen Malpas

“A chisel.”

  “We have a chisel.”

  “A bigger chisel.” I head to the hardware aisle and scan the tool section. “You go find something for dinner. Burgers?”

  “Yes!” She dances off, and I watch her go in that stupid dress with Vans and a cap. My ten-year-old little girl. How the hell did that happen? I grin and get back to finding supplies.

  Half an hour later, I have a basket full of everything we need and I’m wandering up and down the aisles looking for my wayward daughter. “Cabbage,” I call.

  “Second aisle on the left,” Mr. Chaps says from behind the counter, so I head that way. But I don’t find my daughter, just a mountain of leafy green vegetables. “I didn’t mean cabbages, I meant…” I fade off, shaking my head. “Never mind. Have you seen Alex?”

  “Only when you came in,” Mr. Chaps tells me, starting to scan the basket of items that’s been placed in front of him by Father Fitzroy.

  “Alex,” I call, making tracks to the hardware aisle. No Alex. The pang of worry is unstoppable, albeit silly. She doesn’t talk to strangers. She’s streetwise. I’ve taught her to be, not that there’s much call for it in Hampton, nor at that godforsaken boarding school she’s held prisoner in. But still…“Where the hell is she?” I mutter, traipsing up and down every aisle until I find myself back at the checkout. Still no Alex. Dumping my basket on the counter, I head out of the store, my worry getting the better of me. “Alex,” I yell, looking up and down the high street.

  “She went that way.” Brianna, the store assistant, points down the street, smiling at me coyly as she shifts firewood onto the cart outside the store.

  “Thanks,” I say with a frown, following my feet down the street. “Alex?”

  “I saw her go into the arts-and-crafts store,” Bob calls from outside his pub, rolling a barrel of beer toward the cellar hatch.

  My eyes swing toward Hannah’s little store.

  And some strange shit happens in my chest.

  Chapter Six

  HANNAH

  I’m checking my online store when I hear the door open, and I look up from my place behind the counter, smiling at the sight of a girl who’s wearing the most hideous frilly dress teamed with a baseball cap and a pair of checkered Vans. I close my laptop, watching as she walks slowly around my store.

  “Hi,” I say, standing up from my stool.

  She swings around, a paintbrush in her hand, and smiles. “Hi.”

  “I’m Hannah.”

  “Alexandra,” she practically groans. “But most people call me Alex, except my mother’s family who insists on using my full name. My dad calls me Cabbage sometimes.” She shrugs. “I think he does it to annoy my mum. She hates it.”

  I wander over to her. “Why would he want to annoy your mum?”

  “They’re not together.” She slides the brush back into the pot and starts combing the lengths of her hair with her fingers as she wanders to the shelves stacked with paints. “They were incompatible. And I was a beautiful mistake.”

  I laugh under my breath at her indifference. I guess it’s a good thing. “Were you looking for something in particular?”

  “Nah.” She takes a couple of steps to the side and bends forward, looking closely at one of my paintings. “Did you do this?”

  “I did.”

  “It’s really good.” She looks back and smiles.

  “Thanks.”

  “I love your head scarf.”

  I reach up and feel, reminding myself of which one I’m wearing today. Blue with white hearts. “Thanks. Do you like painting?”

  She shrugs. “Mum doesn’t like me doing stuff that gets me messy and ruins my clothes. But Dad loves me getting messy. We get messy all the time.”

  I go over and pick up a blank canvas, propping it up on a spare easel. “Then maybe you could paint something for your dad without getting messy so you don’t upset your mum.” I pluck a brush from a pot and a palette of paints from the shelf, then turn toward her and hold them out.

  Her eyes light up. “Cool!” She darts over and claims her tools. “What should I paint?”

  “Whatever your heart desires.” I grab my own canvas and a brush, swirling it in a pot of water. “Or just go with it.” I dunk my brush in red paint and flick it at the canvas. “Sometimes it just…happens.”

  On a grin, Alex imitates me and starts flicking paint, chuckling as she does. “Oh, look, that looks like a heart.”

  I take a peek, nodding. “I love accidental art. Some of my best pieces were accidents.” I pull over two stools and motion for her to sit, and we both settle in, flicking and humming, seeing what accidents happen on our canvases.

  “Oh crap,” she curses out of the blue, and I look over to see her wiping her forehead with the back of her hand. “I got paint on Dad’s cap.”

  I place my brush down and reach for her cap, pulling it off. “It’ll clean up,” I assure her, catching sight of her dress. “Oh God, look at you. How’d you get so messy so quickly?”

  Looking down her front, she shrugs. “Dad says it’s a talent.”

  “Well, you’re sure good at it.” I chuckle. “I thought I was the messiest person alive.” I motion down my front where paint is splattered, old and new. “You look like me.”

  She points at my head. “I don’t have a head scarf.”

  I smile at her hint and pull it from my head, tying it in her hair, making the bow on top big. “Perfect,” I declare.

  She reaches up and feels. “Mum will say it’s untidy.”

  Wait. Speaking of her mum, she’s been sitting in my store for twenty minutes. “Where’s your mum and dad?”

  A cough sounds from behind me, making me swing around. And I nearly fall arse-first from my stool. “Ryan!” I yelp, finding him leaning comfortably against the doorframe. I drop to my feet, clumsily, of course, and start wiping at my cheeks, where I know I’ll be sporting various blobs of paint.

  “Hi.” His crooked smile holds my eyes for too long, and my whole being becomes more flustered. Alight. Alive. I remember our almost kiss. I remember how good it felt when he was touching me. I remember…every tiny detail of my visit to his home this morning.

  “Found a new friend?” he asks, pushing his weight off the door and striding casually into my store. His big body, dressed in dark jeans and a black T-shirt, looks out of place surrounded by all my colorful clutter.

  Tearing my eyes away from him, I look over my shoulder to Alex, who has turned to face Ryan, too. She’s grinning. Why’s she grinning? I look back to Ryan. He’s grinning as well. “Love the head scarf.” He motions to Alex’s head, and she reaches up to tweak the bow.

  “Hannah gave it to me.”

  Gave it to her? I did?

  “I was worried,” Ryan says gruffly. “And look at the state of you.”

  I find myself glancing down my front, to all the paint there, my forehead furrowed with lines of confusion.

  “Chill out, Dad,” Alex chimes, completely unaffected by the wrath in Ryan’s tone. “I was with Hannah. She likes painting.”

  “Hi, Hannah,” Ryan says, and I hear his boots hitting the floor, coming closer. It prompts me to look up, my eyes dragging over his jeans and T-shirt.

  “Hi,” I murmur, stopping at his neck and the messy dark stubble coating it. “Ryan, this is Alex,” I say, a little dazed. “Alex, this is—” My brain spasms. “Wait, what?” I crack my neck as I look up at him, now only a few feet away. “Did she call you Dad?”

  Ryan’s smile is small and awkward. “That’s me.” He looks to his…daughter? “You’re in trouble, Cabbage.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” She jumps down off the stool and strolls casually over to Ryan, craning her neck back to look up at him. “You know Hannah?”

  His eyes flick to mine quickly before returning to his daughter. “We’ve met.”

  “But when I asked about the new art store in town, you didn’t know about it.”

  Ryan’s cheeks flush, his jaw tightens, and he cl
ears his throat. “Like I said, we’ve met. Not talked.” He shifts in his boots, looking anywhere around my store except at me. “We’d better get going. I need to have my truck looked at.”

  “But I’m painting,” Alex whines, taking herself back to the stool and sitting down, collecting her brush. My eyes follow her and watch as she dips the paint and starts flicking again. “You do what you’ve got to do and collect me on the way back.”

  “That’s not a good idea.” He goes to her and lifts her from the stool, setting her gently on her feet.

  “Why?”

  “Because I need your help.”

  “To have your truck looked at?”

  My eyes travel back and forth between them, listening as they argue about whether Alex is going with Ryan or not. It makes me smile as I take myself to the counter and continue to observe her standing her ground against her six-foot-God-knows-how-tall father.

  “You’re coming,” Ryan grates, clearly losing his patience as I rest my elbows on the countertop and my chin in my hands. “I’ve not seen you in two months.”

  “If you hadn’t run down a weasel, your truck would be fine.”

  My chin slips off my hand. “Weasel?” I blurt, glaring at him. His big body stills, and he’s suddenly quiet, obviously stuck for any answer for his daughter and me. A bloody weasel? The nerve. “Like a rat-like creature?” I ask, joining Alex and sitting down again.

  “Don’t worry, the poor thing wasn’t hurt,” Alex pipes in next to me, keeping her attention on the paint she’s flicking. “Dad swerved and hit a tree.”

  “Wasn’t hurt?” My foot comes up and rests on the stool, and I hug my bent leg, my chin on my knee, just shy of the bandage. “Poor thing,” I say quietly as Ryan’s eyes fall to my damaged leg. His big body deflates as his apologetic eyes lift to mine. I look at him expectantly, strangely relishing his clear remorse. “I hope it’s recovered from the shock.”

  His eyes now narrow, and I can’t help my small smirk, and it only stretches when I see he’s trying very hard to hold back his own smile. “Something tells me it has.”

  “Don’t be so sure,” I say quietly.

  Ryan’s head cocks a fraction, his smile faint. “How much for the canvas and paints?” he asks, digging into his pocket as Alex sings her delight and claps her hands. “She can finish it at home.”

  “To you?” I ask, getting up and putting myself behind the counter again.

  “Yes, to me.”

  I smile sweetly. “Fifty pounds.”

  On a poorly concealed balk, Ryan pulls off three twenties from a wedge and walks to me, placing them on the counter and holding them in place. “You’re ripping me off,” he whispers.

  I place my hand on the notes, too, never taking my eyes from his. “Call it compensation for calling me a weasel,” I whisper back, tugging the money from under his fingertips. “I’ll keep the change, too.” Those eyes, they narrow more, though he’s still forcing back his amusement as I fold the twenties neatly and slide them into my top drawer, slamming it shut with a bang. And he just stares at me, and I hold it, until the silence quickly becomes uncomfortable and his gaze too intense. I look away, my skin suddenly burning. “Why are you looking at me like that?” I ask quietly.

  “What, like I want to throttle you?”

  Crack. His question triggers something inside me, and I close my eyes, withdrawing, feeling two big palms wrapped around my throat. I see myself in darkness struggling, fighting the strength, gasping for breath. I snap my eyes open on an uncontrolled exhale, reaching for my neck and feeling there, pushing back the flashback that’s caught me by surprise. I haven’t had one for years. Why now? My chest heaves. My skin becomes damp. I see his face, no matter how much I try to blink it away.

  “Hannah?”

  I step back, my gaze darting around wildly, trying desperately to remind myself of where I am. Who I am. “I’m sorry,” I wheeze, shaking my head and the memories away. It takes too long for me to gather myself, but when I do, I paint on a lame smile and find Ryan. His head has retracted on his neck, his eyes searching mine. I can’t face the questions in them, so I turn my attention onto Alex to escape. “Let me see when you’re finished,” I chirp, so over the top with enthusiasm.

  “Are you okay?” she asks, my little meltdown not being missed by her, either. She lifts the canvas from the easel.

  “Yeah.” Hurrying over to the shelves, I snatch down some tubes of oil paint and a brush, tucking them in a paper bag. “Here.”

  Her face lights up, and though I’m relieved I’ve diverted her concern, I’m certain I haven’t Ryan’s. “Thanks.” Claiming the bag, Alex looks to her father. I, however, do not, instead tidying the already tidy shelves. “Hey, can Hannah come and help us with the bridge. She can paint it.”

  I still. What? “I’m afraid—”

  “I’m sure she’s got better things to do,” Ryan interrupts me, and I turn to look at him, unreasonably injured. It doesn’t matter that I was going to make my excuses. But it does matter that Ryan has. And I don’t know why. “Go put those things in the truck.” He nods to his daughter’s full arms without looking at her. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

  Without question, Alex dances out of my store, leaving me at the mercy of her father’s raging curiosity. “See you, Alex,” I call as I make my way to the kitchenette out back. I just hear her reply over the sound of me placing a mug on the counter with a thud, and I look to the doorway, waiting for him to come find me.

  I flick on the kettle, then fetch milk from the fridge and load my mug with a tea bag and a sugar, all the while getting more and more tense. Ryan’s not left the store. So where is he? I look at the doorway again, getting myself worked up, knowing he’s out there waiting for me. Waiting to ask if I’m okay. Or maybe waiting to ask what’s wrong.

  The sound of my fingers tapping the counter keeps me company until the boiling kettle drowns it out. And when it clicks off, I lift it, the damn thing shaking on its way to the mug. “God damn it,” I mutter, feeling my emotions getting the better of me.

  “Give it here.” Ryan appears, taking the kettle from my hand, leaving my hands free to rub down my face. “What happened in there?”

  “Nothing.” I move away from him, his closeness making me uncomfortable all of a sudden. And I hate that notion. Because, really, Ryan has never made me feel uncomfortable. Only relaxed. And perhaps that’s why I’ve been so tense, because of how easy it is to be with him. I’m not used to that.

  “Come on, Hannah.” The kettle hits the counter hard, and I startle, quickly chastising myself for it. “Look at you.”

  “I’m. Fine,” I grate. I’m not angry with him, more at myself for letting something so stupid affect me, especially in front of Ryan. “I don’t need interrogating.” I find the strength I need to look at him. “Alex will be wondering where you’ve gotten to.”

  His chest heaves on a deep inhale, a sign of him fighting to retain his patience. “Have it your way.” Moving toward the kitchen door, he rolls his shoulders as I watch him go.

  “I will,” I murmur, not intending for him to hear me. Though he does, and he stops in the doorway abruptly, slowly turning toward me. It’s a standoff, him raking his eyes over every inch of my face, me doing the same to him. And I soften. Because I see worry, and that isn’t something I’m used to seeing on a man. And I feel things, things that are odd but welcome. I feel drawn to him. His weathered face is harsh, but his persona soft. “You were leaving,” I remind him, feeling the atmosphere shift, energy sizzling between us.

  He steps forward. And I breathe in. “Where did you come from, Hannah?”

  I shake my head, his question dulling the electricity, and I so don’t want that. I want all the electricity and none of the questions. “Don’t,” I warn.

  “Don’t what?” Another step forward, and this time I step back. He stops, alert to my retreat. “Ask questions?” A forward step from him and a reverse step from me. My arse hits the counter, and I
reach back to feel it, my head lifting as he gains on me until his chest is touching mine. He breathes down on me. “Or don’t kiss you?”

  I breathe in, and our chests press together as a result. Those questions in his stare have faded, and replacing them is…want. It only fuels my own unexpected hunger. The distance between our mouths closes, and I feel the heat of his breath spreading across my face, my body warming with it. I swallow. I flick my gaze to his lips and back to his eyes. Every part of me is preparing to be kissed, an exhilarating current sweeping through me.

  “It’s definitely not the last thing,” he whispers, his lips meeting mine and resting there. Sparks erupt, just from that simple touch of our mouths, and this time I have no intention of pulling away.

  “Dad!”

  Ryan flies back on a curse, looking as disoriented as I feel. “Shit.” Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he quickly composes himself before looking to the door when Alex appears. She glances between us a few times, quiet and definitely suspicious.

  Oh God. I lunge for the kettle and pour, my shakes no better than before, but now for an entirely different reason. “What are you doing?” she asks, making me cringe.

  Ryan finds his voice faster than I do. “I was just getting Hannah’s bike.”

  “Her bike? Why?”

  Yes, why? I turn around and cock my head, and Ryan looks away, avoiding me.

  “It’s broken.” He goes to the back door and looks back at me for confirmation that he’s heading the right way. I nod. “I figured since we were going to the garage to have my truck looked at, we could take it with us.” Taking the handle, he starts pulling at the locked door. “Go wait for me in the truck.”

  Alex throws me a knowing look, and I throw her a shrug before she pivots and struts away.

  “How d’you open this damn door?” Ryan snaps, swinging around violently. I withdraw, and he squeezes his eyes closed. “I’m sorry.” His arm lifts toward the wood. “Where’s the key?”

  “You don’t have to fix my bike,” I say, but I reach into my pocket for the key anyway.