by C. C. Hunter
The text wasn’t from him. Instead it was from Kylie.
Holiday told me you got the place in the gallery. Super excited for you.
Fredericka smiled. And again she considered how she’d missed out on things by not having girlfriends. Someone to share secrets with. Someone who gave a damn. Maybe someday she’d be able to do that. To let others close.
You string beads? Cary’s words about her jewelry making filled her head. She knew it was partly just about being a guy, but when she considered all the other hurtful things he’d said, it seemed more like a jerk thing than a guy thing.
I think you’re worth more than that. Brandon’s words echoed behind Cary’s. Brandon was for sure all guy—an image of him cutting wood filled her head—yet he’d managed to say something nice—something that boosted her confidence instead of knocking it down a notch. The fact that he was an artist might have given him an edge, but … Footsteps echoed in the distance.
She moved to the window she always left cracked open for just this purpose. Those footsteps were familiar. Damn. Lifting her face up to catch any scents, she identified the intruder.
A few seconds later a knock came at the workshop door. Since when did Cary come looking for her?
“Come in.” She turned away and put the pen on her paper, pretending to be sketching.
He moved in beside her. But she kept her focus on the sketch and even shaded in one part.
“You didn’t answer my texts,” he said.
“No, I … I had my interview at the gallery.”
“What gallery?”
The one that wants to sell my strung beads. “I’m going to be showing and selling my work in a new gallery in Fallen. The owner wants me to have three more jewelry sets before we open. So if you don’t mind I really need to—”
“You don’t have time to hear me apologize?” he asked, sounding somber.
She looked at him for the first time. He looked apologetic. And he looked good—more like a guy she liked and less like a teacher. He wore jeans, and a light blue T-shirt that hugged his broad shoulders. His green eyes held a touch of remorse.
“For a quick one,” she said, remembering that just yesterday she’d had her head filled with dreams of what they would have soon. Funny how the loss of that dream hadn’t cost her that much.
“What I said about your dad came out all wrong. Forgive me?”
She inhaled and when she was about to exonerate him, she stopped herself. “It’s not just what you said, Cary. It’s that … I think I’m a lot more into you than you are me. And that doesn’t feel right.”
“Is this about my trip to Europe? I had planned that trip before you and I ever liked each other. I know it got canceled but still—”
“It’s about everything,” she said.
“What’s everything?” He reached up to brush a strand of her hair off her cheek. His touch was sweet, but for some reason she recalled a stronger sweetness earlier—when she’d bumped into Brandon.
“What do you know about me?” she asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Just that, Cary. What do you know about me?”
He paused and she could tell he was searching for something he could tell her. But he came up empty. “You don’t talk about yourself.”
“Neither do you. Well, not about the personal stuff. But I asked questions. I know where you were born, about your parents and your sister. I know you like mustard on your hot dogs.”
“That’s not fair,” he said.
“What’s not fair?” She held her chin up.
“I’ve purposely kept my distance, trying to … If I got to know more about you I’d want…” He leaned in. “This.” He kissed her. She didn’t respond at first, but then she did—wanting to experience the magic of it. To feel like somebody’s girl. It had been so long since she’d been kissed.
Then she felt it. The soft purr of a male were. He wanted her. Wanted more than just a kiss. That should make her feel good, and it did, just not as much as she thought it would. She pulled back.
“Don’t give up on us,” he said.
She looked at him. On the tip of her tongue were the words, I won’t. But those weren’t the words that slipped out. “I don’t think there is an ‘us.’”
Right then she knew the reason, too. The mystery that awaited her in Brandon Hart. Oh, hell, was she nuts? Cary was full were and a perfect mate for her. For all she knew, Brandon could just be human.
And getting emotionally involved with a human would be crazy. Even thinking about it was crazy considering she didn’t even know if he liked her. Just because she’d caught Brandon eyeing her butt didn’t mean anything.
“Don’t play games,” he said, his eyes growing bright with anger. Then he grabbed her arm, the one with scars, and his hand buried into her flesh.
“I don’t play games. Now leave, or do I have to escort you out?” And she would have.
He walked out, but something warned her that she hadn’t heard the last from him. Obviously, Cary Cannon didn’t like not getting his way. Too bad.
She’d let people bully her for the first ten years of her life—she had the scars to prove it—but no one, no one manhandled her now.
* * *
At ten the next morning Fredericka pulled up in front of the soon-to-be gallery ready to work. Ready to uncover some answers about Brandon Hart. Ready to find something else besides her past to consume her and gnaw away at her sanity.
She’d spent half the night remembering her father, grieving for a man who had thought so little of her that he’d left her with people he barely knew. And then spent the other half angry that she had to do it all over again. That she still cared.
But I’m sure you have questions. And the answers might be in here. Holiday’s words played in her head like a broken record. While temptation pulled at her head and heart, she couldn’t think of one reason her father might give that would make abandoning her okay. Not one.
So why subject herself to the pain of even reading it?
Taking a deep breath, and pushing her thoughts from her issues, she focused on the house—the soon-to-be gallery. Trying to come up with ideas to make it … more inviting. Some paint. Maybe a bright color. A sign. Yes, he needed a sign hanging from the eaves. The flower beds needed to be replanted.
In the morning sun, the house looked sleepy, as if it hadn’t woken up yet. No lights on. The blinds were still closed. Was he waiting on her? Was he even awake?
Still holding onto the steering wheel, she imagined him in bed, shirtless. Her heart started to race, and she gave herself a mental kick in the butt. Letting the crazy attraction blossom was all kinds of wrong. On top of him probably being human, she’d be working with him. Any kind of a relationship outside of a common friendship would complicate things.
And her life was complicated enough.
She got out of the car, slipped her phone into her back pocket, and went to start her day. The cool air brushed her hair back and she remembered that in four days the moon would be full and she could find solace in her run in the woods. Whatever problems weighed on her heart at a full moon, they became lighter when she shifted and could just let her inner wolf run and romp in the night. It was almost like having a great dream, it made for a little escape that hung on for a few days.
The door stood slightly ajar as it had yesterday. She leaned close and peered inside, half expecting to see his sister again. She wasn’t around. The chimes hanging from the ceiling, in what looked like it had once been the dining room, played a soft song as if welcoming her inside.
She knocked.
“Coming,” a deep voice said, and she recognized it to be Brandon’s. She took in a breath, a tiny bit of excitement flowing through her, hoping he wasn’t wearing his hat today. And god help her, but kind of hoping he wasn’t wearing his shirt either.
Just friends!
But as he cut the corner from the hall to the office, she saw him. He wore a dark green T-shirt a
nd a baseball hat.
But his frown caught most of her attention. That and the fact that he was already turning so she couldn’t see his scars.
“Good morning,” she said, and while she was three feet from him, she could smell him and his freshly showered aroma. Teasing her senses were the scents of a guy’s spicy soap, shampoo, and minty toothpaste. But he still held his natural scent of wood and outdoors—and the slightest hint of some kind of paranormal. She just couldn’t put her finger on it.
As crazy as it sounded, she wanted to bury her face in his neck and that smell. She wanted to taste the mint on his breath. No doubt, the upcoming lunar change was heightening her awareness of the opposite sex. Heck, if she could just make it past the full moon, she might not even find him all that alluring.
She could hope.
Then it hit her that yesterday she hadn’t been the least bit lured by Cary’s scent or even his kiss.
“Is it good?” he asked and Brandon’s frown tightened.
“Not a morning person?” And she did it again. Smiled. What was it about this man that made her want to be happy? It hit then. It wasn’t just about being happy, it was about wanting to see him happy. Was it the scars? Did she just assume he was as haunted as her on the inside? Or was it the sadness in his eyes that reminded her of what she saw when she looked in the mirror?
Was Brandon Hart damaged?
“I’m generally fine with morning, if I’ve slept.”
I didn’t sleep either. “Something keeping you up?” she asked and as crazy as it sounded she wanted him to confide in her.
“Yeah.” He shrugged and looked around, his gaze landing on the chimes still playing soft music.
Her gaze went back to him. She liked the way his hair, appearing still a little damp, curled up on the ends. What she didn’t like was that he purposely kept his left side away from her line of view.
“Worried about the opening?” she asked.
“I need caffeine.”
Okay, so he didn’t want to explain why he hadn’t slept. He was obviously keeping his guard up, didn’t want her getting too close, and that should be a message for her to do the same thing.
Should be. But damn it, here again, she’d never been good with “shoulds.” It seemed her natural instinct was to go against “shoulds”—as if some part of her longed to be a rebel.
Chapter Five
Fredericka followed him into the opposite side of the house that held the office. She ended up in a kitchen, painted bright yellow with red accents. It didn’t look like a guy’s kitchen. She remembered Brandon’s sister. Did she live here?
He stopped at the counter and glanced back at her with the good side of his face. She almost asked about his sister, when he spoke up.
“Would you like some coffee?”
“Never acquired a taste for it. But I’ve always loved the smell of it.”
He poured himself a cup. And turned a little more than halfway, still hiding. The fact that he knew exactly how far he could turn his face toward her, allowing her to see both his eyes, but the scar under his cheekbone close to his ear remained out of sight, didn’t get past her.
Their gazes locked and in the bright blue of his eyes she saw a bit of exhaustion there. Oddly, the same feeling echoed inside of her. The silence grew awkward really quickly.
“I was thinking of all that needs to be done out front. Would you like some suggestions?”
“Sure.” He sipped from his cup. The steam rose up and gathered under his cap.
She recounted to him her ideas: the paint, the garden, the sign. He listened and sipped his coffee. “I had plans for all of that except painting. Not sure I have time for that.”
“You would if I help.”
“You paint?” he asked.
“Yeah.” She ignored her phone that dinged with a text.
“You need to get that?” he asked.
“I’ll check it later,” she said, fearing it was from Cary. He’d sent her one text early this morning about wanting to talk to her. But she’d said all she had to say to the guy.
“Come with me, I’ll show you something.” He led her through a door into a garage. The smell of fresh paint hit her.
On a workbench she saw it. The sign. It read, FALLEN GALLERY. It was painted in yellow and black, and had some red accents. Kind of like the kitchen, only a little less bright. It looked both artistic and classy. She looked at him and smiled.
“That’s exactly what I had in mind. Why don’t we paint the porch the same yellow? Then we can plant the gardens with some flowers that have a little yellow and reds. You’ll also need a sign that lists the hours. And maybe put a nice bench on the front porch. You know, for the man’s man who isn’t into art and is just waiting on his wife or girlfriend.”
He stood there staring at her and sipping from his cup. The temperature in the garage seemed at least ten degrees below that in the house and his coffee sent up steam. When he still didn’t speak she got worried.
Had she sounded too eager? Was she overstepping her bounds by making too many suggestions? Showing too much enthusiasm?
“You don’t think real men are into art?” he asked, but there was almost a teasing to his tone.
“No, I just mean the macho types, who don’t give a flip about walking through a gallery.”
He lifted one brow and the smile, while not on his lips, was in his eyes. “So you don’t think men who are into art are macho?”
“I didn’t say that,” she said, not sure how to react. Was he flirting?
Did she want him to be flirting? Oh, yes, she did. But was it really a good thing? Her gaze lifted to his forehead covered by his hat, but afraid he’d think she was gaping at his scars, she quickly looked away.
“Would you like to ride into town with me and help pick out the paint and flowers?”
“I would love to.”
He nodded. “Wait right here. I’ll get you a helmet.” He walked out, leaving her in the garage.
“A helmet?” Her words seemed to hang in the cold, empty room. Then she looked around and saw the red motorcycle parked beside the silver Malibu. She’d never been on a motorcycle. But she’d seen plenty of women with their arms wrapped around some hot guy as he drove right into the wind. She’d always envied those women. They had someone to hold onto. There had been times in life when she would have liked to have someone like that.
She stared at the motorcycle and realized how close they would have to be to each other. A soft thrill ran through her, but so did a little tickle of fear.
“Here you go.” He walked back in with two helmets in his hands, still only offering her the unscarred side of his face. His hat was gone, but he’d replaced it with a blue-and-black bandana and his dark hair flipped up around the cloth. Over his T-shirt he wore a dark brown leather jacket. It looked faded, worn, and warm. Right then, chills prickled her arm.
Running her hands up her arms, over the long-sleeved shirt, she looked down at the helmets.
He held one out. She took it, without thinking. Then he put his on. Turning around, he reached over to the wall and pulled down another leather jacket that hung on a hook.
“The wind can make it feel a lot colder than it is.” He held the black jacket out.
She gazed back at the bike. Envisioned them on it, her body pressed against his, her arms around his waist. She didn’t anticipate she’d be cold.
Warning bells rang in her head as anticipation whispered down her body.
“How … how are we going to bring back the paint?”
“We aren’t. We’ll just buy it and have it delivered.”
“We … we could just take the car.” She glanced at the Malibu.
“It’s … not mine. It’s my sister’s.” His gaze went to the door leading back into the house and held there for several seconds.
“I could drive,” she offered. “The car … it’s out front.”
He studied her, still holding out the black jacket. “Have you e
ver ridden on a bike?”
She shook her head.
“You afraid?” There was a touch of challenge in his voice.
“No,” she said, but she recognized the one word as a lie. Just not for the reasons he accused her of.
“Then let’s go.” He casually tossed the jacket over his shoulder and then threw one leg over the bike, and looked back at her. “Climb on.”
For some reason, his two words sounded like a dare. Her heart raced. She could tell him no. She could. But instead, she slipped the helmet on and fastened it.
And with her body buzzing with anticipation, she walked over to him. He held out the jacket.
She took it. Their fingers touched, and a jolt of awareness shot up her arm. He watched her put it on and zip it. It was big, but felt good, warm. And the scent that rolled off it was uniquely his.
“Just slip in behind me.” The helmet covered his scars completely. Their eyes met again. He smiled.
And it was as breathtaking as she’d imagined it. She smiled back.
“Hop on,” he said.
She did as he requested, but allowed a couple of inches between their bodies.
“Hold on to my waist,” he said, his voice low.
She inhaled and cupped her hands on each side of his waist. The leather beneath her palms felt cool. But what she mostly felt was him beneath the material, his lean waist. She remembered seeing him without his shirt.
Her pulse increased, the air in her lungs hitched. And she could swear she heard him let out a gulp of air as if he’d felt it, too.
“See the motor?” He pointed back with his right hand.
“Yes,” she managed to say, but her voice came out a little high.
“It’s hot. Don’t let your legs touch it. Keep your feet on the foot pegs. You see them?”
“Yes.” She put her feet up on them.
He hit something attached to his handlebars and the garage door opened. He started the engine. The bike jolted forward and brought her against him. Her breasts pushed against his shoulder blades.