Close Enough to Touch

by Victoria Dahl

  “Where’s your stuff, Grace?”

  She buttoned her jeans and didn’t look up at him. “Thanks for that.”

  “‘Thanks for that’? Really?”

  “Yes, really. It was just what I needed. I had kind of a shitty day, in case you didn’t notice the fun at the ranch.”

  He wanted to find out more about that. Who that woman had been, spouting nasty things about Grace. Whether any of them were true.

  “You want that drink now? I’ve got beer at my place.”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Are you going to hang out here?” He very pointedly looked around the room. “Maybe do some meditating? You’ve got a hell of a feng shui thing going on here.”

  “Screw you, Cole.” She opened the door and held it wide, raising her eyebrows in cool expectation. Cole was relieved not to see any of his friends out there this time, especially because he was buck naked.

  “Uh, Grace? You want to close the door until I get my clothes on?”

  She swept an impatient look down his body, but she closed the door.

  “You’re really not much for pillow talk, are you?”

  “No.”

  Cole reached for his clothes. “So, you didn’t actually have anything to move in, did you?” He kept his voice calm, hiding his growing shock.

  “I came here on a bus. There wasn’t a lot of space for furniture.”

  “You just left it behind.”

  “Something like that.” Her eyes dipped down as he stepped into his underwear. “That scar—that’s where you broke your leg?”

  He glanced at the scar. “Come over to my place. Have a drink. Please?”

  “I don’t want a drink.”

  “Then just come over to my place.” What the hell did she do in here all evening? No wonder she was so quiet. There was no television. No stereo. Just a pile of books next to a sleeping bag in the bedroom.

  He tugged on his shirt and shoved his feet into his boots. “Come on. Did you have dinner?” he asked, opening the door and trying to scoot her through.

  “Yes,” she snapped. “I’m not a stray cat. I don’t need you to feed me.”

  “Fine. Then just get naked and get in my bed. I don’t give a shit.”

  That made her laugh, as usual. An insensitive jab. She even smiled as she willingly followed him to his apartment. But once she was in the apartment, she stood there, arms crossed as if she was uncomfortable again.

  Cole tilted his head toward the bedroom. “Go on. You know where it is.”

  “I thought you were offering a drink.”

  “Oh, I’ll bring you a beer once you’re in bed, but not until then.”

  Amazingly, she actually headed for the bedroom. He’d only been teasing. Mostly. But she just rolled her eyes and laughed her husky laugh and sauntered toward his room. He thought he saw her hands reach to unbutton her jeans, and Cole swallowed hard.

  Shit. She made no sense to him. She was a mystery. A mystery inside a minefield. Somehow he couldn’t help but work his way through it, waiting for the violence to erupt at any moment.

  He’d thought she was a typical artsy city girl starving herself to stay thin and lounging in a minimalist apartment. But he’d let his prejudice blind him. She didn’t have any furniture. She’d didn’t have real food, probably because she had no way to cook it. Or just no money at all.

  At least he had his answer about whether she’d stolen that eight thousand dollars. He doubted she had eighty dollars.

  Cole grabbed two beers, popped the tops and headed for the bedroom.

  Yeah, she’d taken off her jeans but kept on her faded blue T-shirt and bright yellow panties. That was a good thing, Cole assured himself as he handed her a beer. He wanted to talk, and if she were naked, he’d likely be distracted by her ass. Or her breasts. Or that tempting triangle of perfect hair between her legs.

  Yeah. This was good.

  But just in case she preferred a bit more skin, he stripped down to his briefs as she climbed up to the bed and rested her back against the headboard. He took the other side and clinked his beer against hers. “Here’s to a fine evening.”

  “Hell, yeah.”

  He was taking a drink when he felt her hand on his thigh. She touched him lightly and then lifted her fingers to hover over him. “Does it hurt?”

  “Yeah. But not when you touch it. The incision is long healed.”

  Her hand lowered again, the warm pads of her fingers brushing cautiously over the ugly slash of scar tissue. “What happened?”

  “You already heard. A horse panicked. A fresh-broke stallion. Somebody started a diesel engine right next to the corral. He panicked and reared and backed into a horse I was leading. The stallion lost his footing and came down right on top of me.”

  “Yeah, but this is a surgical scar.”

  “The femur was shattered. They had to put plates and screws in.”

  She traced the longest scar, then lightly touched each of the round white spots that looked like bullet holes. “But it’s okay now?”

  “Not quite.”

  “But it will be?”

  “There’s a good chance.”

  Her eyes rose to his as she pressed her hot palm to his thigh. “You’ll be okay.”

  He smiled, entranced to see her being sweet. “You think?”

  “I do. You’re a big, strong cowboy.”

  “Not as strong as I used to be.”

  “Mmm. But just as big.” Her fingers dragged playfully over his cock, which already felt pleasantly heavy from all the attention in such close proximity.

  “Flatterer,” he murmured.

  “I can be charming when I have to.”

  He leaned in to touch her hip and press a kiss to her neck. “Charm comes in a lot of different packages.”

  “Don’t expect too much.”

  “All right.” He pushed the hem of her shirt up just enough to let his thumb graze the black lines of her tattoo. “Tell me about your tattoo.”

  “I already told you about it.”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  She tilted her head a little, a hint that she wanted another kiss. So he kissed her again, then caught her earlobe between his teeth for just a second.

  “Someday you’re going to tell me, you know.”

  “No, I don’t know.” But her body relaxed into him with a sigh.

  “All right. Tell me about that woman. The awful one who was trying to get you in trouble.”

  Her sigh this time was rough with frustration. “Oh, God. I don’t know anything about her. I think I met her at a party in L.A. She obviously knows my ex.”

  “You think that’s why she did it? Because of him?”

  Grace frowned. “I don’t think so. It seemed like she was just showing off for Madeline.”

  “Ah. Of course. People have told lies for less.”

  Grace sat up again, her back to the headboard of his bed. She took a sip of beer. “What if it’s not a lie?”

  “Which part? You already told me you weren’t into drugs, and I know you’re not a big drinker. Are you a thief?”

  “What if I said I was?” she asked, her chin edging out.

  “I don’t know,” he said honestly. “I know you didn’t take eight thousand dollars, anyway.”

  “How?”

  “You’re spending your nights in a sleeping bag on hardwood. Either you’re the most frugal thief ever or it isn’t true.”

  “But if it was? If I were a thief?”

  “What are we talking about here? Cars? State secrets? Your ex-boyfriend’s kinky porn stash?”

  She managed a small smile. “No. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. It was just a misunderstanding. And now he’s being an asshole.”

  “Why’d you break up?”

  Her smile faded and she crossed her arms. “We weren’t really getting along, that’s all.” They drank their beers in silence for a while. He wondered at the edge in her voice that warned him away from the subject, and finally d
ecided to dare it.

  “Why weren’t you getting along?”

  She shook her head. “I’m sorry, but why do you think I’d tell you my deepest, darkest secrets after the way you treated me last night? What kind of a fool do you think I am?”

  “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “Again. This whole film thing…it’s a sore spot with me.”

  “It’s all right.”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  “It doesn’t matter. You got back in my pants, didn’t you? Just let it go.”

  Yeah, he’d gotten back in her pants, but he had this need crawling through him, tunneling under his skin. He wanted to get her to reveal more than just her body. He had no idea why. Her dark eyes drove him mad. And her cool smiles. And the way she’d seemed so unsurprised at the way he’d treated her.

  It fascinated him and made him feel like shit at the same time.

  He needed to know more. Maybe if he offered something, she’d tell him more in return. “I worked for Madeline Beckingham when she was shooting a film here thirteen years ago. I got caught up in the attention. I didn’t like what it brought out in me.”

  “Were you an actor?”

  “At first I was just an extra. Then I helped with some of the training on riding issues. I worked with the stuntmen. And I got a small part.”

  “That doesn’t explain your anger.”

  Here was the delicate part. Telling the truth without coming close to all of it. He sat back against the headboard with a sigh. “I got caught up in it. Arrogant. Madeline promised me a lot of things, and I believed her. I was stupid enough to give up my spot at the ranch I’d worked at for four years. I walked away from my friends during the busiest part of the season. Left the girl I’d been in love with for two years. I acted like I was better than all my old friends. In general, I behaved like a self-satisfied, conceited asshole.”

  “And what does that have to do with girls like me?”

  He watched her hands as she slowly rolled the bottle back and forth between them. “You’re not like those women. I shouldn’t have said that to you.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “You’re not polished like that.”

  “No? I’m all rough around the edges, huh?”

  She was rough around more than the edges, but he knew better than to say that. “No, I mean they’ve been polished into something fake. They’re smooth and beautiful like plastic. Perfect. High heels in the dirt.”

  She turned to look at him, her expression as blank as a white wall.

  “You don’t create yourself into something meant to attract.”

  “Uh, did you just say that?”

  “I don’t mean sexually. Obviously, I’m attracted to you.”

  “Or it’s the age-old allure of free sex right next door.”

  “Come on. You know that’s not true.”

  She laughed at him, shaking her head. “Sure I do.”

  “I meant that you present yourself as a warning. That’s honesty, isn’t it? You want people to think you’re not soft.”

  “I’m not,” she said quickly.

  He put his hand on her white thigh, marveling at the sight of his scarred, tanned skin against her perfect leg. “You feel pretty soft to me.”

  “Don’t be fooled. I’m not and I never have been.”

  “Why?” he asked, trying to sound as casual as possible. As if he didn’t really give a shit at all.

  It worked. “My life’s been pretty screwed up. That’s all. I had to take care of myself.”

  “Did you always live in L.A.?”

  “Not always, but nearby. Long Beach. Riverside. San Bernardino. And little places out in the desert. We moved a lot when I was young.”

  “You and your family?”

  “Me and my mom.” She finished her beer and got up to walk to the kitchen. “You want more?” She brought back two more and lay back down beside him. When she repositioned herself, her shirt hitched up a little, and Cole took the opportunity to slide his hand up her hip.

  He watched his fingers spread over the tattoo, fascinated by the contrast. Her fine white skin, untouched except for the startling blackness of the ink and, covering them both, his brown fingers. After years of clashes with leather and steel and wood and barbed wire, his hands looked like they’d been chewed up by a machine. But her skin was flawless. As if she’d never been touched, much less damaged.

  A dangerous illusion that only added to her mystery. He shouldn’t try to solve it, but he couldn’t seem to help himself.

  * * *

  “YOU MUST HAVE BEEN a tiny kid,” he murmured.

  She tried to ignore the way his hand felt on her sensitive belly. She tried to pretend she didn’t feel tiny again. “Yeah,” she answered. “I didn’t look tough, so I had to be tough.”

  “Bad neighborhoods?”

  She paused, staring at her beer and seeing a dozen different apartments in a dozen different cities. “My mom wasn’t around a lot. That’s all.”

  “And your dad?”

  That was an easier answer. That one didn’t even hurt. “I never met him. What about your parents? Did you grow up on Bonanza? Or…what was that other one? Gunsmoke?”

  “Are you asking if my mother was an Old West whore?”

  She convulsed and pressed a hand to her mouth to keep the beer in. “Oh, God,” she finally gasped. “Don’t do that when I’m taking a drink.”

  “You’re the one who said it.”

  “Okay, I forgot about Miss Kitty. Sorry. I didn’t mean to imply anything.”

  “At least she had a heart of gold. But no. My dad was a ranch hand his whole life. My mom left when I was ten. She’s married to an insurance salesman out in Casper. They used to make me go stay there during the summer, but I kept running away, so that stopped. That’s it. Pretty boring.”

  “That sounds sad, actually.”

  “Naw, it wasn’t bad. Normal kid stuff.”

  She turned to meet his gaze, and he was watching her so carefully, his blue eyes clear and pure. “Are you sure?”

  “Everybody has stuff like that in their lives. Things other people don’t see.”

  Whether it bothered him or not, the story made her sad for him and she didn’t want him to see that in her eyes, so she put her hand over his and stared at their entwined fingers. “Maybe,” she murmured. “People never do look very hard.”

  “They don’t. But I like looking at you, Grace. I don’t think you’re as tough as you seem.”

  She chuckled. “That’s not true. Don’t think things like that. I can’t be soft. For anyone.”

  “No?”

  “No,” she whispered.

  He turned his hand up and folded her fingers into his, and she felt as if her hand could disappear into his larger one. She wasn’t sure if that comforted her or scared her to death.

  “Why?” he asked.

  “That’s a ridiculous question. Why? Because people suck. Haven’t you ever noticed that?”

  “Not everybody sucks.”

  God, what was this? More Old West shit? “No? How about you, Cole? How do you think I would’ve felt after that first time if I were a sweet, soft girl? If I’d let you bend me over your couch like you’d paid for me, and then you threw it all in my face before I even got my clothes back on?”

  Blood rushed to his face as quickly as if she’d slapped him.

  She smiled. “Because if I trusted people, I probably would’ve trusted you not to do that. But I don’t trust people, so I was fine. You see how it works?”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t… You’re right. That was awful.”

  “Sure it was. But we’re all awful, Cole. I’m awful, too. We may as well have a good time together.”

  “You’re not awful.”

  “Oh, God.” She laughed. “Really? What that bitch said about me today, even if that wasn’t true, it used to be. I used to steal things. Shoplift. I used to take clothes and food and shoes, because I thought I had
a right. I didn’t have anything and those people did, so why not? And I did drugs when I needed to forget what my life was. When I wanted to pretend I was only hanging out at the park with my friends instead of living there.”

  “That’s—”

  “And I’ve told men I loved them just because it seemed easier than not saying it back. Because it might buy me a few more weeks of not being alone. But I’ve never loved anyone, Cole. Not the way you’re supposed to.”

  “None of that is bad, Grace. You just…”

  “It was all bad. All of it.” She laughed to hide the new huskiness in her voice. “But strangely, I only ever get ruined by the good stuff I do. Standing up for myself. Speaking up when something is wrong. Trying to make my life better. So I just want to start over. Reset. Go somewhere where no one knows me.”

  “Are you running away?”

  “Maybe. Does it matter? It’s all semantics. I don’t care. I’m not more or less ashamed of myself because of it. I’ve got plenty of other shit to be ashamed of.”

  “Like what?”

  She thought of Scott and felt her throat thicken. Not because she’d loved him. She hadn’t. But because she’d given up things she’d believed about herself. Important things. For nothing. If she’d loved him, maybe she could use that as an excuse when she looked back. Then again, she was awfully glad she hadn’t given him her heart.

  She didn’t answer Cole’s question.

  “You’re right, you know,” Cole said quietly.

  “About what?”

  “We’re all awful. If you’ve made mistakes, you don’t have to be ashamed of that. And you don’t have to be ashamed about being soft sometimes.”

  “I’m not soft,” she said again, but when his fingers slid between hers and tightened, she had to swallow hard. He plucked the beer from her other hand and set it on the bedside table. Then his fingers settled on her cheek and turned her toward him. But she didn’t look at him. She closed her eyes and pretended he really meant it as he pressed a soft kiss to her jaw, then her chin, then her mouth.

  “Grace,” he whispered.

  She wanted to tell him to be quiet. To stop talking and let her pretend. Pretend he was touching her that way because he knew her and cared.