A finger is carefully pressed against the glass on the other side of my forehead. “You’re wearing more of it than whatever you’re painting,” he smiles.
Blushing, I look away. Here he is, standing before me looking like he walked out of a dressing room at a men’s store and I look like Cinderella, minus the ball gown. Not the impression I wanted to make.
“I can help,” he offers. “I’m good with my hands.” He tries to hide his smirk, but fails miserably.
I try not to show my ever-growing amusement. “I’m sure you are.”
“You don’t remember?”
The double pane of glass between us seems to disintegrate, melted by the fire that just kicked up between our bodies. Of course I remember. Every cell of my being remembers his touch. It’s impossible to forget how one brush of his finger seemed to switch on an energy inside me.
“Barely,” I lie.
“I could remind you.”
“You could leave.”
“You’re right. I could. But I don’t want to.” He leans towards me until his face is directly across from mine. “And I don’t think you really want me to either.”
His eyes plead with me, pull at my heartstrings. And no matter how mad I want to be at him, no matter how dangerous this specific man is to my existence, I relent.
“Fine.” I’m opening the door before I can be logical about it. I regret it as soon as I do.
He slips in easily, smelling all delicious, with the confidence he carries like no other. It’s not vanity or arrogance, nor is it some holier-than-thou persona. It’s a charisma, a self-assuredness, a faith in himself that rolls off him with complete and utter ease.
“Thanks for letting me in. I wasn’t sure you were going to.”
“I wasn’t sure I was either,” I admit. “I probably shouldn’t have, but no one has ever accused me of being a good decision maker.”
“Why do you say that?”
I shrug, turning away to try to center myself. My brain feels like a frazzled wire, every emotion crossing with the other and leaving me a giant walking disaster. I plead with myself to keep it together, to stand my ground. I’ve waited for years to show him I was better off without him. Now’s my chance.
“Since you’re here, I thought I could tell you that I’ve talked to Violet and she agrees—we don’t need security.” I stare at a little dribble of paint rolling down the wall. “We’re just wasting your time.”
I hear his shoes against the floor, stepping closer. “I don’t do anything that wastes my time.”
My breath catches as his hand rests on my shoulder. His palm is heavy and warm, and I could easily tilt my head just a few inches to the side and rest it against his forearm. I’ve done it a hundred times.
“I want you to know,” he begins with a gruff to his tone, “that if you honestly don’t want me here, I won’t come. I respect you too much to do that.”
“You’ll just walk away. Trust me, I believe that.”
It’s a direct reference to the past, a jab at him in the most juvenile way. I know he catches it, but he lets it slide.
“I never said that.” He circles around until he’s standing directly in front of me. “I never said I’d leave you alone. I said I wouldn’t do that to you here, not at your business.”
I don’t know how to take that. I’m not sure I even want to read into it. I just know my cheeks are hot as hell and my stomach is flipping all sorts of ways.
“What do you want, Ellie?”
“What I want is for you to go away so I can look into some voodoo light stick and have you erased from my memory altogether so I can live a life without knowing you exist.”
“Tell me how you really feel,” he chuckles, lifting his hand from my shoulder. Instantly, I miss it. “I see you’re still blunt like your dad.”
The look in his eye is genuine, as is the clarity in his voice. They always got along—two country boys with a lot to chitchat about. His concern makes me happy.
“I was over that way today,” Ford says. “You think I could swing by and say hi to him sometime?”