He was still trying like hell not to notice when she backed out and swung around with several stacked boxes in her arms, only to smack them right into his chest. “Oh! I didn’t know you’d come back. I didn’t hear you.” The boxes bobbled wildly. “Fragile!”
He had no choice but to grab her arm with one hand and use the other to trap the boxes between their bodies until she steadied herself.
Her eyes shot wide as his hand wrapped around her arm, and her mouth opened on a silent gasp.
“I’ve got them,” he told her, keeping his gaze level on hers, hoping to keep her from going into . . . whatever the hell state she’d gone into the last time he’d touched her. “It’s okay.” He heard the edge to his words and tempered his annoyance, which was really just a cover for concern. He didn’t want to deal with another one of her episodes, but didn’t want to see her deal with one, either. “I got it,” he repeated calmly and quietly when she simply stared at him, seemingly frozen in place.
“I’m sorry.” The words sounded strangled. She didn’t move or let go of the boxes.
So he didn’t—couldn’t—let go of her, though he was sorely tempted. If he’d thought her eyes were spooky before, something in them now downright gave him the chills.
“Let me go,” she said, the words tight, almost forced, but with an edge of desperation.
“Can’t do that, sugar, until you let go of the boxes. I’ve got ’em.”
She continued to stare at him, her gaze boring straight into his.
“How ’bout on the count of three,” he said, wishing like hell whatever it was she was suffering from didn’t tug at him. But damn it all, it did. “One . . . two—”
She started trembling, then abruptly jerked her arm free.
If he hadn’t been paying such close attention, he’d have dropped the boxes. He almost did, anyway. With his other hand under them, he managed to steady them, but his attention wasn’t on the boxes. It was on her sheet-white face, her eyes wide with terror or horror as she stepped back, only to bang up against the car. He couldn’t have said why, but he was pretty damn certain if the car hadn’t been there to block her retreat, she’d have turned and taken off at a dead run.
Operating on instinct or his own brand of sudden onset insanity, he shoved the boxes on top of her car and shifted his body—without touching her—so she was boxed in. Not with the intent of scaring her, but with the intent of making her feel secure.
“All right, darlin’. It’s okay. You’re fine. It’s all good, sugar, you’ll be just fine.” He talked to her much the same way he’d talked to Lolly when she’d been anxious and scared coming out of the anesthetic after her first surgery. Gently, but firmly. “Nothing bad is happening. Nothing bad is going to happen.”
He wished he understood why she went from normal chick to crazy chick like she did. It obviously had something to do with coming into contact with people. Not dogs, apparently. She’d spoken quite naturally and calmly about meeting Lani, Alva, and Barbara Hughes, too. Maybe it was just men—which meant, he belatedly realized, it was highly likely at least one of his gender had done some not-so-nice things to her. In the recent past perhaps? Who the hell knew. He was an auto mechanic. He fixed engines, not people.
Still, he felt a bit bad for being so pissed off about it all. He should have figured it out sooner. He remembered the way she’d stared at him when she’d said, “I’m not crazy,” as if willing him to believe she really wasn’t the loony tune she’d seemed back in his garage.
“I-I’m . . . s-so . . . s-sorry,” she said, stuttering the words, trembling even harder, jerking his complete attention back to the present. “About . . . the fire. That’s terrible. Who’d do that? Only . . . no, it was electrical. The storage place, next door? It was so windy. And your garage—” She gasped. “You ran in! You ran in when it was burning. Why, why would you do that? What was worth saving that you’d risk—oh no! Poor Lolly. Poor baby. Oh my God. If you hadn’t gone in—”
She was talking and looking right at him, though it was as if she could see straight through him. Or straight into him. She clearly wasn’t in the here and now, anyway, nor was he quite sure she even knew what she was saying. It was as if she was a million miles away in some other reality only she could see. Except the things she was talking about were very real and specifically about him. She had the details exactly right.
“It’s okay. Lolly is okay.” He thought if he responded rationally, calmly, maybe it would calm her. He wanted nothing more than for her to snap out of it. He honestly didn’t know what the hell was happening or what might have happened to her in the past, but at the moment, all he wanted to do was get back to the business of moving her things over to the B&B and getting her out of his personal space. Permanently. He’d pay to expedite the parts for her car, whatever, but this was way more than he wanted to deal with. “It was an electrical fire,” he told her, firmly, if gently. “Wiring shorted out in one of the storage units, and yes, wind carried the sparks and set my garage on fire. It was an accident.”
“Everyone is okay? Lolly—she’s trapped!”
“Honey,” he said, a bit more sharply than intended, but he had to snap her out of this . . . trance, or whatever the hell she was in, and he wasn’t about to risk touching her to do it. “I got Lolly out. We’re both fine. You know that, you’ve seen it with your own eyes. Remember?”
Her gaze sharpened on his. “You almost weren’t. You could have died.” Her voice was a hushed whisper, laced with trembling horror as if she were there, in the moment, watching it all happen. “That beam, the second one, caught the back of your shirt. If you’d been one second later, getting to Lolly—oh, Dylan, you’d have both been lost!”
Okay, that stopped him dead. He gaped at her, stunned, and not a little freaked out. No one knew about the second beam. Not the fireman, not the local EMT, not the vet. He’d never told anyone about the burns on his back. He’d spent the night at the vet’s with the dog, had shrugged off—rather firmly—suggestions that he should be looked at for smoke inhalation, at the very least. He’d been fine. The dog had not.
He also knew, in retrospect, that it had been a lot easier to focus on what the dog needed than to think about the total loss of the business his grandfather had started, and the wildly varying emotional responses he was likely to have about that once reality began to sink in. So he’d put off thinking, as long as he could, anyway, and focused his attention where it could do some good.
He wished he could do the same with whatever the hell was happening right that very moment.
“Honey.” He barked it this time. “Look at me, dammit. Look. At. Me.” Sometimes when Dylan’s father had gotten really wasted, he’d have these waking nightmares about losing his dad, his wife, about Mickey. The only way Dylan could get him out of it was to jerk his attention in a clean snap. A slap to the face would have done it, but nothing would ever provoke Dylan to raise his hand to anyone, ever. So he’d used his voice like a verbal slap then, as he did now. “Focus,” he ordered, redirecting her. “We need to unpack your car. Lolly is in the truck, waiting.”
“Lolly.” Honey’s head jerked, but her eyes looked a little less wild, and her voice was somewhat calmer. She finally glanced from him to the open bay door and the truck sitting just beyond it. “She’s in the truck.”
It was the first rational thing she’d said, and his relief was profound. He focused on that, and simply shoved the rest aside. For the time being.
“Yes,” he said, still forcefully, but evenly. “She needs us to unpack this car. Do you understand?”
“Lolly needs us.” Honey looked back to Dylan. Her trembling had stopped and color was seeping back into her cheeks. “She’s really okay?”
“She’s fine. She great. You’ve seen her. Petted her. Do you want to go out and see her now?”
He expected Honey to nod and maybe stumble off toward the truck. At least she’d calmed down and wasn’t freaking out any longer. Instead, she was freakin
g him out. She reached up and very purposefully put her hands on his face. He went rigid, his heart skipping multiple beats as he waited to see if the trance would start all over again. He was a breath away from jerking back from her touch when she spoke.
“Are you okay?” She asked it softly, quietly. Her gaze probed his deeply.
He could still see some kind of disconnect as if she was looking, but seeing something only she could see.
“Your back . . . it healed, too?”
“It did, yes,” he said, not sure why the touch of her hands should be soothing to him. He should be the one trembling or shuddering.
As she splayed her fingers out so her fingertips brushed along his temples as if trying to deepen the connection, he felt a kind of... calm seep into him. “I’m fine,” he said quietly, matching her tone, keeping his gaze intently on hers.
Then she slid her hands to his chest, and his body leaped into awareness so fast, so hard, it almost left him breathless. It definitely left him speechless.
“Only not here,” she said, still searching his eyes. She pressed her palm against his heart. “Not here.”
He had absolutely no idea what to say to that. Or how to explain the way she was making him feel. She was crazy one second, disturbing the next. Then soothing, then . . . arousing him so swiftly he ached to the point of pain with the need to pull her against him, to cover that mouth, and dear God please, make her close those all-seeing, all-knowing eyes. The compulsion made no sense, but it took every last bit of restraint and control he had not to give in to it.
She lifted her gaze to his, and those clear green eyes were swimming in tears. It was like a punch to the gut, and hurt him in ways that made no sense. He didn’t even know her. But it about killed him to see it. What the hell was going on?
His resolve began to crumble, and he lifted his hands to cover hers, still pressed to his chest. “I’m fine, Honey,” he assured her. “Just fine.”
Her hands were cold, which surprised him. They had infused him with so much warmth, with comfort. He felt a fine trembling in her fingers, and noticed the same with her lips. But she didn’t say anything; the crazy didn’t come back. And, defenses eroding more rapidly than he could restore them, he took a step in, lifting one hand from hers, intent on cupping her cheek, on wiping away the tear there . . . but she slid her hands free, and broke eye contact before he could.
She looked somehow smaller, seemed more fragile, than she had at any point since he’d first laid eyes on her. And he had no earthly clue what to do about it . . . or why the hell it mattered so much.
Something had obviously just happened. To her. To him. Between them. A whole lot of something. As much as he’d like to just walk away and pretend it hadn’t, he didn’t. Couldn’t.
Batshit crazy? Maybe. Okay, certainly. But she’d gotten under his skin. And inside his head. And into a part of his past only he knew about.
The stunning intensity of his physical response to her was part of it, too. Not just because he wanted to act on it, but because it scared the living hell out of him. Crazy had no part in his life, not for a bizarre moment in his garage, and sure as hell not for a one night stand . . . or anything more. It was not his path, not any longer, and never again. But tell that to his still thrumming body, and his hammering heart.
He needed to figure it out. Figure her out. If he understood what was going on, then he could deal with it. With her. Then he’d get as far away from her as possible. And stay there. Because crazy had no place in his life. He had to believe that. Or go crazy himself.
Chapter 6
Honey kept her gaze averted, trying to come back to full awareness. It was a challenge. Part of her was being pulled toward Dylan and the exceedingly vibrant aura that continued to hover all around him, while another part was silently freaking out at the enormity and complexity of what she’d just experienced. Still another part of her was struggling mightily to shove all of it aside and simply get a grip on the here and now—which meant not looking at him. And praying he kept his hands to himself, at least for another moment or two. Or forever.
A parade of heart pounding, terrifying images kept playing through her mind, everything she’d seen, felt . . . known. All of it about Dylan, and how close he’d come to dying in that fire. The other part of it was his sharply spoken commands, contrasting with the gentleness of his touch, knowing, even as she was still trapped in the vortex, that he was trying to be there for her. Even as she knew he couldn’t possibly do anything to help her, much less fix what was wrong with her. It was what it was. It lasted as long as it lasted.
But it had never, not ever, been like that. Past events, current emotions, all twisted and tangled. She’d seen one thing, and felt another, felt him the entire time. Her visions had never had that kind of scope or such vivid detail. The disconnect with what was going on around her was usually absolute, but this time she’d known he was with her, even as she watched every horrifying detail, how close he’d come to losing his life. Maybe that’s why it had affected her so viscerally. So . . . personally.
“I . . .” Her voice was little more than a rasp, and she realized her throat ached from suppressing the funnel of emotions she’d just been shoved through at warp speed.
“Shh,” he said. “You don’t have to—”
“Thank you.” She had to get at least that much out. “For trying. To help. Nothing does.” She rubbed her damp palms on the sides of her shorts, more to soothe away the last of her shakiness than to dry her suddenly sweaty palms.
“Honey—”
“I can’t look at you, at the moment.” She lifted her hands, palms out, dismayed that they still trembled ever so slightly. “Please—”
“I’m not going to touch you.” But he didn’t step back.
For some reason, that helped to calm her. He was like a barricade, or . . . or something. Against what, she didn’t know, since he’d been the trigger. But . . . having him close helped, so she didn’t question it.
“Okay. Good . . . okay.” She tried to take slow, steady breaths, but it was a struggle. Images still hovered, so closing her eyes wasn’t an option. She stared at her feet, at the grease stain under her toes. Anything innocuous.
“What happened?” he asked quietly, with more gentleness than she’d have thought him capable of exhibiting. “What happens to you?”
She shook her head. “Maybe . . . another time.”
“Okay. Does it happen often?”
She shook her head again. “It’s been . . . eight years . . . ten months . . . um, two weeks, and . . .” She trailed off, not wanting to think about the last time she’d let someone touch her, let someone trigger the curse. It had been in the distant and disconnected past. She’d built a whole life for herself since then. It had been in another lifetime, a different one, and as if it had happened to some other person.
Now it felt like it had been only yesterday. Except what happened with Dylan was far, far worse than that last time. Maybe burying the curse for so long had made it come out more strongly. Maybe it was because she was older, no longer a naïve kid who thought leaving Juniper Hollow to go off to art school would somehow make the curse go away . . . or diminish it. As if subjecting herself to so many people, all at once would simply short circuit the whole thing. Only it hadn’t exactly turned out like that then.
And it certainly hadn’t now.
“I know . . . you think I’m crazy—” She held up her hand to stall any reply, took a deep breath, and forced herself to look at him, almost nauseous with the fear that she’d go rocketing back to that place. It balled her still shaky stomach up in a queasy knot. Only, she didn’t spin back. She stayed right where she was, fully in the present.
To her stunned shock, he smiled, though concern for her was still clear in his gray eyes. “Well, sugar, when I said a little crazy was a good thing, maybe I wasn’t talking about this.”
To her complete and utter amazement, she spluttered out a choked laugh. “Yeah, well . . .�
�� She started to tremble again, but in overwhelming relief. She was okay. She’d made it through. It had passed. And Dylan didn’t seem any the worse for wear. Well, other than he surely wanted her gone as quickly as possible, but that she could deal with. She wanted to be gone, too.
“Honey,” he began, and lifted his hands, palms out, to reassure her he wasn’t going to invade any more of her personal space than he already occupied. “I get that, whatever it is, you can’t control it.”
She shook her head, and then felt the surprising sting of tears, again. It was a reflex from the sudden release of stress.
“No, no. No more tears,” he said.
Maybe it was the slightly panicky edge to those words, the realization that this big, bad wolf of a guy could handle her total out-of-body experience with barely a blink, only to be shaken by the threat of weepy girly tears, that somehow gave her that added edge she needed to take another step toward regaining control.
“Trust me,” she said, with an inelegant sniffle. “I’d really rather not, either.” She took another deep, shuddering breath, looked away from him once again, and gathered in the ragged edges. “Honestly,” she said, as she grew steadier and the threat of tears finally dimmed, “I do thank you. For trying. For wanting to help. I know you don’t get it, and you’re probably thinking thank God for that.”
She scrubbed her face, pushed her hair back, and lifted her chin once more. “Most folks would have freaked out. Or gotten angry.”
“Well, it did kind of freak me out, sugar. I won’t lie. But it didn’t make me mad. It’s not like you were doing it on purpose.”
She expected to see it then, the pity, the relief, the “thank goodness it’s her and not me.” Or even the “I hope it’s not contagious” look of concern. But there was none of that. He didn’t seem to be thinking of himself at all, but more sincerely concerned with getting her back to rights again.
“Let’s finish loading your stuff,” he suggested. “Better yet, why don’t I take you to the B&B with what we’ve got, let you get some rest. I’ll bring the rest of the stuff by in the morning.”
Cupcake Club 04 - Honey Pie Page 8
