by Maisey Yates
And oh, sweet Lord, there was no way he was thinking the same thing. If he didn’t pity her before, he would if he’d realized exactly what she had been about to do.
So she shoved him again, and this time, he lost his footing, going back a couple of steps. “Close enough,” she said. “Anyway, I agreed to help you, I didn’t agree to accept commentary on the way that I handle things, talk about things or engage in my actual relationships. We—” she gestured between them “—don’t have a relationship.”
“I never said we did.”
“Sticking your nose in other people’s business is just kind of your thing?”
“Actually, I don’t normally get involved in anyone’s business. Because I don’t get involved with them at all.”
“So, I’m special?” She bit those words out, hard, hoping that they would hit him and sting.
“Yes. Whether or not you want to be, you are.” He didn’t seem any happier saying it than she was to hear it. “You’re one of the things that I need to fix. I don’t give a damn about much, Rebecca—you have to believe that.”
“But you care about me?”
He shook his head, his mouth pressed into a firm, grim line. “I don’t care about you. But I care about what happened. I care about dropping a little bit of the burden that I’ve been carrying around for over the past decade and a half. My motives aren’t exactly pure, and it would do you well to remember that. I’m not asking you to trust me, not completely. But I am asking for you to stop snapping at me every time I come within a few feet of you.”
There was something about those words that deflated her. Which was silly. It shouldn’t deflate her to hear him speak the truth. If he had said that he cared about her, she would have hit him anyway. She didn’t want him to care about her. Still, hearing him say all this, unvarnished, completely honest—she knew it was honest—wasn’t exactly heartwarming.
“Fine. What do you want me to do?”
“My house. Tomorrow night after you close.”
A vague sense of disquiet overtook her, and she shoved it down immediately. She was the one who had almost done something crazy. She was the one who was being slightly psychotic around him. She hated him. Absolutely hated him. Had without even knowing him for the better part of her life. The fact that she had thought, even for a moment, about closing the distance between their mouths…that just proved that she was under some kind of psychological duress brought about by his presence, no doubt.
There was no reason to feel disquieted. He wasn’t going to do anything. He looked at her like some kind of score he had to settle. That was it. He didn’t see her as a human, much less as a woman. This all had to do with some vague idea about soothing a conscience that she imagined was way too damaged to ever truly be soothed. But, that part wasn’t her problem. Her problem was getting him out of her life, and getting final ownership of the store.
“Fine,” she said through her teeth.
“I’ll see you tomorrow night then.”
He walked out, just as another customer walked in, and it didn’t even give her a moment to breathe a sigh of relief over his absence. Didn’t give her a moment to recalibrate, which was why—she told herself—she spent the rest of the day with her head churning. She had a steady stream of customers, and it kept her just distracted enough that she didn’t brood, but wasn’t quite able to ever calm down.
She felt restless, edgy, for the rest of the day, a strange kind of energy shooting through her veins that she couldn’t quite put a name to.
By the time she got home, she just wanted to collapse. And she very guiltily ignored a couple of texts from the girls. Because she didn’t want to go out, and she didn’t want to talk to anybody. She didn’t want to tell them about what had happened with Gage, but she had a terrible feeling that if she talked to any of them, she would end up spilling the beans.
She wanted to keep all of the dark, confusing feelings from earlier today locked up inside, but they were beating at the door, desperate to get out. She was confused, and she was restless. Those things were a very bad combination.
She was pretty accustomed to keeping her feelings and thoughts to herself when it suited her.
But she could tell this was not a well-behaved feeling. It was not going to sit in the corner until she told it it could be done. It was going to burst out of her at an inopportune moment unless she got a handle on it.
She wandered to the fridge, reaching inside and taking out a piece of pie that was left over from Alison’s shop the other day. She hummed as she took a bite of the lemon meringue, wandering over to her couch and taking a seat with her feet folded underneath her.
She grabbed the remote that was next to her and turned the TV on, flicking it to a network that usually replayed old comedies. She didn’t watch TV often enough to keep up with any shows, not because she didn’t like it, but because her schedule was too haphazard.
But reruns were always a good bet.
It was an episode of a show that she liked, so she settled into the couch, taking another bite of pie. This was good. A little clarity. A little pie.
Except, the comedy took a slightly emotional turn as two of the main characters started fighting about their relationship. And then, when things hit a peak and the woman unlocked the door to the coffee place, letting the man back in so that they could kiss passionately, Rebecca’s mind went completely blank of everything except what it would be like to kiss Gage like that.
What would’ve happened if she had leaned forward, closing that distance? If she had grabbed hold of his face and pressed her lips to his, pressed her breasts to his hard chest…
She set her pie plate down on the couch and jumped up, walking back behind the couch and trying to do something with the restless energy inside of her. She should not be thinking of him this way. She really shouldn’t be thinking of anyone this way, and typically, she didn’t. She had all that stuff under control. Her life moved in a series of predictable patterns and she liked it that way.
What she didn’t like was this. This longing that worked in direct opposition to reality. She didn’t… There were a lot of reasons that she had never been with a man. Valid reasons. The last time she’d gone out with a guy, he had assumed that because of her scars she should be grateful for the attention. He had assumed that she would be easy.
She wasn’t going to be anyone’s pity lay, ever. That guy, at least, had been something of a difference in contrast with a couple of the other men she had tried to date who had treated her like she was made of glass. They had treated her like an invalid, like there was something wrong with her. And that really wasn’t any more appealing to her than being treated like a sexual charity case.
Plus, whenever she went on a date with a guy, he was always asking questions about her. And she didn’t like that either. Basically, she hated dating. But, dammit all, she liked men. Their bodies, anyway. At least, she was pretty sure she did. Would like a chance to explore that a little more.
She growled, reaching down and taking hold of the remote, turning the TV off. She didn’t need to watch other people make out when all she could think of was making out with the last man on earth she should ever want to touch.
This just made her hate him even more. The fact that this man who had already had such a profound, indelible effect on her body was reaching inside of her and changing her yet again.
She grabbed her pie, holding it close to her chest and marching back into the kitchen. She stood at the counter and finished it, not taking any more chances with the TV.
When she finished, she walked into the bathroom, stripping her clothes off as she went. She started to run water in the tub, turning and looking at herself in the mirror as she waited for it to fill. She pinned her hair up slowly, examining the woman looking back at her. She was… Well, she was used to her reflection. To the patches of skin that were puckered on her face, that tugged at the corner of her mouth and made her smile asymmetrical. To the little crease by her left eye
that pulled it tight and made it slightly more catlike than the right.
To the large depression of skin by her rib cage, and the patch that had been surgically removed from her stomach to be placed on her leg, where it had been most badly damaged.
It was her body. She didn’t know it any other way. She had been young enough when it had happened—barely pubescent—that her body hadn’t really begun to change into a woman’s shape yet. So, along with her curves, these scars were a signal of growth and change.
It was just her.
It wasn’t beautiful, but it was all she knew.
She sighed heavily, turning in the small space and walking across the stone floor to the claw-foot tub in the corner. She stepped inside, her muscles relaxing as she sank into the warm water. Finally she felt some of the day’s tension begin to fade.
She closed her eyes, letting her head fall back, and something about resting her head against the hard surface brought her thoughts back to that moment in her shop earlier today. When she had been braced against the hard wall with Gage in front of her, so unyielding, uncompromising.
So hot. And so very masculine.
Her breath hitched, her breasts rising up out of the water, the cold air making contact with her wet skin, causing her nipples to tighten. At least, that’s why she told herself her nipples tightened. It couldn’t have anything to do with him. Certainly not.
Except, the memory of what she had just seen on TV superimposed itself over the memory of what had actually happened today, and she was powerless to stop herself from imagining what his face would feel like beneath her fingertips. Rough, from the dark stubble, hot like the rest of him.
Her heart was thundering in her chest, so hard and so loud she was almost sure she could hear it echoing in the small space. For just a moment, she forgot that it was a bad idea to let herself think of him like that. For just a moment, she forgot everything except for how wonderfully compelling his face was.
He wasn’t beautiful. He was too hard for that. Too uncompromising. But that was what made him so fascinating, at least for her. He was so raw, so undeniably male, and that was outside of her sphere of experience.
What would have happened if she had leaned in? If she had touched the tip of her tongue to his bottom lip. What would he taste like? What would he sound like?
Her heart rate quickened even more and an answering pulse began to beat at the apex of her thighs. She was tempted then, so tempted to slip her hand between them, to try and ease the ache that was building there.
She closed her eyes, biting her lip as she let herself do it. Just for a moment. Her fingertips grazing her sensitized flesh as she gave herself over to the image of his lips pressing against hers.
“Gage,” she gasped.
And it was that, his name, that hard slap of reality, that saw her removing her hand and launching herself straight out of the tub.
No. This was too much. There was crazy—which, agreeing to work for him to pay off the debt she hadn’t even wanted, possibly was—and then there was just insanity. Fantasizing about the man who had caused her accident, who was responsible for each and every scar on her body was insanity.
She looked at herself in the mirror again, allowed her fingertips to trace the ruined skin, rather than that lying, treacherous part of herself that was so needy for a man it would even allow her to fantasize about the man who had harmed her. This was what she needed to remember. That he was responsible for this pain. Not just the scars, but everything that had come after it.
Her mother leaving. Jonathan being put in the position where he had to assume the responsibility of raising her.
He had come in and accused her of being guarded. Of pushing people away.
She did it because of these. These scars. She moved her fingertips over a particularly ugly one just beneath her breast. That did it. It cooled her arousal.
She wouldn’t think of him like that again. And if he ever laid a hand on her again, she would remove it.
She grabbed a towel and wrapped it around her body, nodding once at her reflection and walking out of the bathroom. Gage West was already far too big in her existence. She would not allow him to loom any larger.
CHAPTER EIGHT
IT WAS STARTING to get dark outside, and Gage entertained the momentary thought of sending a search party out for Rebecca. Then, he imagined the indignity that she would feel if he did. The idea made him smile.
A little bit perverse, sure, but Rebecca Bear was a hellcat. It kind of amused him. He had definitely expected her to be slightly more downtrodden than she was. But she was all fight. Which, in the grand scheme of things, wasn’t the best thing for her. In his opinion, she would be better served fighting against actual enemies, instead of just being angry. Particularly at people who were trying to help.
Just as he was seriously thinking he was going to have to make sure she was okay, he heard footsteps on his porch. Followed by a knock that was incredibly surly.
There she was.
He crossed the expansive space and went to the door, pulling it open and looking at the small, indignant woman standing there. Her arms were crossed tightly across her midsection, her dark eyebrows lowered, her lips set into a frown.
“Hi,” he said, standing to the side.
She glowered, not offering him a greeting in return, as she walked into the house. She unzipped her jacket, taking it off and holding it out. He took it from her, hanging it on the peg that was just behind her.
He didn’t see any point in commenting on her bad attitude. First of all, because it was kind of funny to watch her behave like an unhappy teenager. Second of all, because she was more than entitled.
“Why don’t you come upstairs with me,” he said, turning and heading toward the staircase. He did not hear her footsteps behind him. He turned slightly. “I’m not going to bite you.”
Her lip curled and she arched her neck to the side, dragging a fingertip over a perforated line of flesh. “Too late.”
His stomach tightened. “Fair enough.”
He walked up the stairs, and this time, he heard her following behind. He paused at the top, looking down at her, part way up the stairs, and at the view of the rest of the house. It was nothing like his childhood home, not glossy or marbled in the least. But, it was also completely different to the motels he had spent the past seventeen years inhabiting.
The high ceilings, large windows that overlooked the view of the lake and the natural wood beams were a happy marriage between the moneyed lifestyle he had grown up in, and the more rustic accommodation he had grown accustomed to.
He pushed open the door to his office, a slight smile curving his lips as he realized that this one room, containing a computer, a desk, a chair and a couch had more space than the entirety of his typical living situation.
“Have a seat,” he said, gesturing to the couch.
She gave him a sharp bit of side eye, clearly considering defying him for the sake of it. But, seeing as there was nowhere else for her to sit, she clearly decided against it. Instead, she took up a position on the couch that managed to look both furious and inconvenienced.
Her shoulders were stiff, her hands folded tightly in her lap, her knees locked together.
“That’s a very comfortable couch,” he said. “And yet, you seem determined to make it feel very uncomfortable.”
“I couldn’t be comfortable in your house no matter how I sat. That’s like trying to be comfortable in a bear’s den.”
He lifted his lip, touching his tongue to the bottom of one of his canine teeth. “My teeth aren’t quite that sharp.”
He watched as the color rose in her cheeks, as her body tensed even further, a feat he wouldn’t have imagined was possible, since she was already wound so tight he figured a stiff breeze could snap her in half.
“Let’s just get to the work farce,” she said, her tone hard, brittle.
“There’s nothing farcical about the amount of work I have to do. Sadly.”
He reached over to the desk, pulling a large stack of papers off of it and depositing it on the couch next to her.
“Go ahead,” he said, “have a look.”
She looked at him skeptically. “Why are you letting me look at your family finances?”
He shrugged, sitting down in the office chair, leaning back and clasping his hands behind his head. “We already know each other’s secrets, what’s a few more?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Okay,” she said, sounding completely unconvinced. She started to leaf through the papers. “I’m not a financial analyst by any stretch of the imagination but even I can see that there are negative numbers where you would rather have positive ones.”
“True.”
“So, what is this?” She set one of the papers aside. “Your version of a white flag? Show me the soft underbelly of your family and… What? Do you want me to tell everybody? Do you want me to stab you with a broadsword?”
“I’d rather you didn’t do either of those things. But, now you see what I’m contending with.”
“And you want my input on…what to do with the stores?” She looked back at of the papers. “You need to sell off everything you can.”
“The thing is, I don’t want to destroy the main street. I don’t want someone to take ownership of those buildings who doesn’t care about the town. For all of my father’s sins he does seem to love Copper Ridge. I’m not sure he much loves anything else. But this town has been his kingdom for a long damn time, so if he has ever protected anything, it’s this place.”
“Like I said before, Lane will buy from you happily.”
“I think I want to put some covert feelers out for people who might be interested in the empty block of buildings at the end of the street.”
“You suddenly care about the town?”
His chest tightened. “For once I just want to leave a place a little bit better than when I first got there, instead of a little bit worse.”