by Dale Mayer
He’s not special though. He’s arrogant, rude, ignorant and…caring, compassionate, sexy as all hell and…so very nice to look at.
She groaned. “You really are going to make me nuts.”
“I’m making you crazy? I haven’t done anything to you,” he protested, following her inside. “What are you talking about?”
“Oh, nothing,” she said with a snort. “One minute you’re looking gorgeous and happy and the next you act like a gargoyle, then you’re back to looking gorgeous again,” she said crossly.
*
“What?” He didn’t know what to say, and his mind went from gargoyle to gorgeous. Did those two words even belong in the same sentence? He couldn’t see it. “Gargoyle?”
She snorted. “What is it about men that they pick up on a single word like that?”
Walking to the small coffee table that sat in front of her couch, he set the bag of food down. “You’d rather I ask about gorgeous?” he asked dryly. He sat down beside her, watching as she worked efficiently without asking him about it, dividing up the food onto two plates and handing him one.
Without a word she took her seat, picked up her plate, and proceeded to eat with a vengeance.
He ate much slower, keeping an eye on her, noting the red eyes and the pale cheeks, the hair that was brushed back off her face impatiently several times. “You worked up an appetite?”
Her glare would have melted glass if there’d been any heat behind it. He laughed. “Okay, so a tough afternoon, but we’re here, eating, and that’s good, right?”
She shrugged and kept eating.
Not knowing what to say, he was still stunned at her gargoyle and gorgeous comment. Had Jenna been right? Did she like him? Was she interested in him? Damn, he felt like a school kid again trying to sort out matters of the heart. He’d been much older when he learned there was no understanding them.
Now he was right back to being confused. He sighed and stared down at the delicious Greek potatoes on his plate. His appetite was gone. Why was she suddenly so important to him? This last outburst from her seemed so open and honest, and heat rose within him.
“Don’t you like it?” she asked in between bites, eyeing his still half-full plate.
“Are you trying to steal my food?” he asked mischievously.
Smirking, she said in a crafty voice, “If you give it to me, I’m not technically stealing it.” Putting down her own empty plate, she waited expectantly.
“Wow.” He split the rest of his meal in half and pushed one half onto her plate. She snatched it up and settled back to eat again.
“How can you eat so much?”
“Nerves,” she said. “Always been high-strung.”
“I can see that. You’re very slim.” Weaver replied, looking her up and down.
“Add boyish, slim as a board, pancake. It’s okay, I’ve heard it all.”
He raised his head and said mildly, “I wasn’t thinking in terms of your chest size.”
“Good thing as I don’t have one.” She smirked and popped a big chunk of potato into her mouth. “The nice thing is I can run without those things flying in my face, too.” And damn if she didn’t make a comical face that had him shouting with laughter.
Another side of her he hadn’t seen before. If she could laugh at her physical body, maybe she’d get to the point where she could laugh at her other problems too. It was great to see.
“See, I knew I could bring out the other side of you.” She picked up another bite.
“What other side of me?” As her words had mirrored his thoughts, he was confused for a moment. “What are you talking about?”
“You’re too serious,” she said. “You rarely laugh. And never at yourself.”
“How would you know?”
She grinned. “As I do it all the time, I recognize it in others – or the lack of it.”
“Maybe I’m just not comfortable enough around you to do that.”
“Maybe,” she said cheerfully. “And maybe you’re just not comfortable around yourself.”
Damn.
Chapter 21
Where had this great mood come from? But saying what she wanted to Weaver without fear of repercussion was huge. So freeing. Having him here in her room, felt comfortable, and so much more…
“I’m really glad I can say anything to you. It’s given me such a sense of freedom.”
He nodded, but there was a distance to his gaze, as if he’d turned inward. And he likely had.
Still, she polished off the last of her meal. “Thanks for dinner by the way.”
He slowly reached over and put his plate down on the coffee table then sat back. He said, “Care to clarify that comment about gorgeous and gargoyle?”
With her eyebrows raised, she said, “Hell no. Figure it out yourself.”
“I was working on it. Just not sure where you were going with it. See, I really like you. I’d love to see you when this week is over. Maybe go to a movie, have a pizza, and take it to the beach,” he said with a light shrug. “Take it slow. Nothing too pressuring.”
“What if I want pressure?” she asked, her words shocking both of them. Instantly, she could feel her blood pounding in her veins as she sat breathless for a second. Who the hell was this talking? Surely it wasn’t her. Fear had always stopped her from being so open, so… flirty.
He sat up and tilted his eye sideways as he assessed her closer. “Meaning?”
“There’s that academic side of you, looking for answers.” Paris avoided his question, not really knowing the answer herself. Wanting to touch him, to feel him touch her as they shared their innermost secrets with each other, washing themselves of their past. Shaking her head, she looked up.
“And there’s that side of you that darts forward, drops a bomb, and then retreats in case it blows up and you’re caught in the backlash.”
“Oh,” she said in a small voice. “Does that make me a tease?”
This time it was his eyebrows that shot up. “If you do it sexually as an advance and retreat, yes, that would make you a tease.” He shrugged. “I wasn’t seeing or saying that. I’m seeing more of a baby deer darting forward in life excited and carefree but gets out a little too far and remembers mother’s warning so it dashes back to safety.” Now his voice was warm and caring again.
“Nice. I think I like that analogy. Except the mother part,” she added, thinking of her own mother. “You’d have to have a mother who cared enough to warn you. I barely remember mine. She walked out a long time ago.”
“Ever tried to look for her?”
Her headshake was so violent her hair flew out in all directions. “No. And can’t see myself ever wanting to.” Besides, she’d be tempted to punish the woman like she’d been punished. And that wasn’t going to end well.
For anyone.
The joyous lightness inside dropped as she contemplated her mother and her instinctive response to his question. Maybe that damn constable had been right after all. What did that say about her?
“Hey, why so serious? I’m sorry I brought up your mother.” Leaning forward, he placed a gentle hand on her leg.
She watched his fingers close around her kneecap and squeeze gently. A man’s touch that wasn’t out to cause pain or humiliation. How about that?
If she sat there much longer, she might just ask him to take her to bed and prove all men weren’t assholes when they had a woman vulnerable in their grasp.
But so not the way to have a relationship. As an experiment yes, relationship not.
At the word experiment, she froze. That’s what he’d been doing in this class. Right.
“Am I an experiment for you?” she said before she let herself double question the sensibility of asking. “Cause I don’t think I could stand that.” She scrambled to her feet.
“What?” he asked, shaking his head as if to question her sudden switch in conversation. “No. Hell no.”
She glared at him. “Damn well better not be.”
*
Shocked and a little overwhelmed at the suddenness of her actions, Weaver was afraid to respond in case she bolted. He didn’t mind being an experiment for her but would prefer to understand exactly where he stood in this study. Not that she’d let him know. As she eased back, a gentle sigh on her lips, he leaned forward, following her retreat.
“My turn,” he whispered and tugged her onto his lap. She made a startled sound, but he covered her mouth with his own and teased her lips open for him. Smooth and dark, he deepened the kiss until she sagged in his arms. He lifted his head, wondering at the shakiness inside himself.
With her head against his shoulder, she whispered, “Nice.”
He grinned. Finally they had found something they agreed upon.
Chapter 22
Actually very nice, but she didn’t want to make too big a deal over a kiss. Except…it was a big deal. She’d been kissed before. Even in ardor, but it hadn’t done anything for her. She’d participated to see if it was something she could do.
She could. Just why would she? Previously, she hadn’t felt anything. It had been wet and sweaty and awkward and hell no. It was not something she had wanted to repeat.
For her partner at the time, well, they’d been friends and that had been more of a hey, we’ve gone out a time or two it’s past time for a goodbye kiss. For her, it had just ended that whole sex thing.
After all, why do it if it didn’t feel good?
Now Weaver’s kiss – yeah, that had felt good. Dry and warm and caressing, his kiss had made her feel cosseted, safe, cared for. He’d been compassionate, yet there’d been heat under there. A banked heat that also said he was in control. And it left her wanting more…
Like she’d said, “Nice.”
And now what? Did she just lie here and wait? Wait for what?
“Glad you think so,” he said, humor lacing his voice. “I thought it was nice too.”
Lifting her head, she gazed at him suspiciously. His smile deepened.
“Are you laughing at me?” she accused him, pushing up to look up at his face.
His grin widened and he snatched her back into his arms. “Absolutely not.”
“Hmm.” Then he lowered his head, and damn if she didn’t reach up to meet him halfway.
So this was what you were supposed to feel? She wanted to analyze the sensations but his hands stroked across her back, her shoulders, distracting her. The gentleness of his touch, the soothing stroke so unlike anything she was used to. The warmth flowed between them, erasing all the hurt of the day, melting them together.
When he lifted his head the second time, she curled up against his chest, closed her eyes, and relaxed.
It had been a tough couple of days. There was a feeling that the seminar was over – almost over – a winding down in some regards. The workshops had been helpful. She’d seen a few of her problems. She just didn’t know how to deal with the big one in her face.
What was she supposed to do with that?
Usually she’d call Sean and talk it over but ever since he’d hooked up with Robin, she’d tried to give him more space. If he could be there for her, he would. She almost wanted him to swing by. Maybe stand by her side while she pondered the possibility of seeing Constable Delaney.
Delaney. A coldness whispered through her. He’d become a blockage she couldn’t get around. He was an issue that she had to get past. So far she’d managed to avoid him, but she knew that wasn’t the answer.
If only she could figure out how to go about it.
Neither did she want to turn around to find him standing there. She needed to be prepared for the confrontation.
“Thoughts?”
The sound of his voice rumbled up his chest under her ear.
With a pained voice, she said, “I’m thinking about the cop I’m avoiding.”
“Hmmm.” Non-judgmental, listening, waiting. Nice.
“I know I should face him, but I don’t want to.”
“Sometimes we have to do what we don’t want to do,” he said. “And often what we think is a huge deal before and turns out to be nothing afterwards. We can see it had only been big in our minds. Is this man likely to hurt you today? No. It’s still the child in you that sees him as a big bogeyman.”
“I don’t know,” she said, her voice barely audible. “I might still be a child when I see him, in my mind at least, but the fear is real.” Her chest tightened. “The panic is there, the inability to breathe.”
“Right. To be expected. Even now at the thought of talking to him, your mind is recreating the same panic it had when you were a little girl. Although you realize he’s not going to hurt you, or haul you away, or any other number of ugly scenarios, your mind doesn’t want to let go. It’s too locked onto that belief.”
Abruptly, she pulled away from him. He held her back for a moment then reluctantly let her go.
“It’s just really hard.” There was a long pause as she stared at him, considering his words.
“Yes, it absolutely is.” He waited a moment then admitted, “But it’s so worth doing. This man is crippling you. He’s stopping you from being the person you want to be. From having the life you want to live. Is that what you want? Is that who you want to be?”
Shaking his head, he continued before she could protest. “I haven’t known you for very long, but I already know that’s not what you want for yourself. Not what you want to be able to tell your kids down the road when you’ve recovered even further and look back on this stage.”
“That doesn’t make it all doable though.” She settled sideways on his lap, hating that her breath was still hiccupping in her chest and her blood flowed too quickly in her veins.
“Everything is doable. Just in small doses.” He grinned. “Kinda like that worksheet.”
She frowned at him. “What worksheet?”
“The one from the first day…the one you tried to erase then ripped, balled up, and finally ended up swallowing.”
The memory of her chaotic panic had her scrunching up her face in disgust. Though she had come a long ways since then.
He laughed and pulled her close to him again.
“Oh, that worksheet,” she muttered.
“Are you ready to tell me what the answer was that you felt so strongly about?”
She shook her head violently. “No.”
*
Leaning back, it was his turn to sigh as he tried to not let the disappointment choke him. He knew it was about trust. Another big issue for her.
Maybe one she could handle and maybe not. Maybe if he took the first step…shared something he kept private…
After all, he had his own issues. Lord did he have issues.
“My father was murdered,” he said suddenly.
She gasped and spun around to face him, “What?” she cried. “When? How?”
Hating his own instinctive physical withdrawal that happened anytime he remembered that incident in his life, he just stared at her. “I don’t normally tell anyone that.” In fact, he wasn’t sure when was the last time he brought it up. The sympathetic looks and sideways glances people gave made him uncomfortable, made the situation worse.
“Wait…I thought you’d been abused as a child?”
He could understand the confusion in her voice, her words. “After my father was killed, my mother fell to pieces. She took to the bottle. But along with the bottle came the rage, the sorrow, and the complete inability to deal with life ever after.”
“She’s the one who beat you.”
He nodded. “For being home late. For being home early. For not getting up on time. Because the dishes weren’t done. Because she didn’t have any money. Because she didn’t have a bottle in her hand.” Wondering at the ease with which he spoke, he shrugged. It was easy to talk to Paris, especially with her so close. “I think the alcohol let her release the rage about my
father’s untimely death in a way she couldn’t do sober. She was always apologetic afterwards, but then she was never sober anymore so there were never any breaks when she was nice.”
“Is she still alive?”
He nodded. “She’s been in and out of rehab for a while now. It got really bad until I grew up enough to fight back. The trick is to fight back just enough but not do any damage or the cops look at you like you’ve done something wrong.”
Frozen in shock, she stared at him and finally managed to strangle out, “That’s very true.” Several times her mouth opened and always closed as if to add something, only she couldn’t get the words out.
Curious, he waited for her to speak.
Finally, she gave up. Then out of the blue she said, “I’m sorry for your mother and you.” She looked at him, “How did your father die?”
“It was stupid. It was a carjacking and my dad resisted. He was slammed to the ground and stomped on before the assailants took off in our car. My mom and I were standing on the side of the road while it happened. We’d done what we were told to do. He, on the other hand, had loved that car. He hadn’t wanted to give it up so easily.”
“And they killed him?” She gasped.
“Yes, he had internal bleeding in the brain. It was hours before he got medical attention and the doctors did their best, but he didn’t make it. I was six at the time and he was only thirty. My mom a couple of years younger.”
“Ouch, that’s tough.”
He shrugged. “Everyone’s got tough stories. Sometimes we can get past them and for others…it takes time.”
“And for some people, it’s never over. Instead, it becomes a living, breathing thing inside, ready to flare up. Ready to demolish your hard won calm and make you realize that, in fact, nothing has changed.”
“I know that feeling too,” he said. “After my mother spent months at a time drunk, it was tough to see any point in surviving. I had nowhere to go. At ten, I’d thought of running away, but where would I go? I had no other family. Didn’t have many friends, because living with a drunk keeps those numbers down. Hell, I couldn’t have friends over and hadn’t had a birthday celebration or party since losing my father. My life didn’t fit the same life other kids were living. Then again, I wasn’t living. I was surviving.