by Anna Sugden
Maybe.
He grunted and poured a generous splash of whiskey into his glass before adding some of the soda.
“So...”
He shrugged. “You want some?”
Cara nodded, and he repeated the process with her glass. Honestly, if she didn’t feel so bad for him, she’d probably think he was a giant jerk. But he was so wounded under all that jerk. Maybe it had been a while since he’d been with a woman if his hermit ways were any indication. “Are you going to get drunk and then tell me all your deep, dark secrets?”
“No.” His expression was dark, unreadable. “Are you?”
Only pride kept her from leaning away from that look, kept her from dropping her gaze from that...really intimidating question. “I don’t have any secrets.”
“Everyone has secrets. Or at least things they don’t want anyone else to know.”
“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.” She grinned, but he only stared. Stared as if he could see her secrets, whatever they were, without her even spilling them.
Okay, so, coming here might not have been her best choice.
* * *
“HOW ABOUT THIS. Truth or dare?”
Two drinks in and Wes was relaxed but not drunk or stupid. “No.”
Cara pouted. A sexy, enticing pout. It was a really good kiss. Yeah, as relaxed as he felt, it was not good to think about that. To wonder if he could do it again. Without stepping away, without stuttering. He’d never done anything like that before. Apparently, driven by anger, he could do anything.
Dangerous line of thinking, considering she was in his house. Alone with him. Not for work.
“You have to play,” she whined, finishing off the last of her drink.
“No. It’s my house. My rules. And I’m the boss.” Also a dangerous line of thinking. Because this might be his house and his rules, but he knew he wasn’t in charge of this. Whatever was happening.
“Ah, but it’s my whiskey.” She pulled the bottle to her side of the table, grinning.
“I’ve had enough,” he said with an easy shrug. How had he not tried this before? Everything seemed easy with a little bit of whiskey under his belt. He could stare at her and shrug and pretend he hadn’t kissed a woman for the first time in two years. The first time since high school he’d done so without therapy directly beforehand.
He’d kissed this woman. This beautiful, confusing, wonderful woman whom he should tell to get out. He was fine. He should open his mouth and tell her to go home. He was fine. Really. He’d drink away his anger at Liz, and she didn’t need to be around for that.
“And it’s my pie.” She hugged the pie pan to her chest.
He looked at the remnants of his first piece on the plate. She made really good pie, and something about the combination of liquor and sugar was drugging him into some sense of normalcy. “Damn. I really want some more of your pie.”
She giggled and he blushed. Because, yeah, whiskey wasn’t a cure-all for everything.
“How about this?” she began, still holding the pie and whiskey. “In my version of truth or dare, you get to choose knowing what both choices are. I set out the dare and the truth and you get to pick. And if you play, you get another piece of pie.” She held it up, making “mmm” noises that did not make him think about eating.
“What are they?”
“What?”
“The truth. The dare. I’m not agreeing to play. Yet. I want to hear what they are.”
She set the pie down and clapped. “Yay! Okay. Truth. What happened with Evil Liz? Dare—” she tapped her chin, eyeing him “—you take off your shirt.”
He choked on his own spit. “What?”
She opened her eyes extra wide. “What?”
“I don’t...”
“What’s your best option, sweetheart?”
He thought about Liz’s tsks. He thought about Cara kissing him. No, him kissing her. He had definitely kissed her, and she’d kissed him back and thought it was awesome. Her words. He thought about all the ways he hadn’t screwed things up tonight. And how telling her what happened with Liz would. And how refusing to play would. Now he wanted to push until something gave. He couldn’t push his nerve damage. He couldn’t drive back to Moonrise and somehow prove to Liz he was a well-adjusted, successful man, and the torment she and her friends had put him through didn’t matter.
Partly because it wasn’t 100 percent true and partly because how did he prove that? How did he prove his life was good? It was good. He had this job, this house, his dogs.
And Cara, who might be here out of pity but wasn’t acting as if she pitied him. She didn’t look at him like the doctors and the nurses had, certainly nothing like Liz had.
So, he would act. He would act. He couldn’t prove shit to Liz, but he could prove something to himself. He pulled off his shirt. “Your turn.”
Her eyebrows shot up, and much like when he’d opened the door to her shirtless, she didn’t try to hide she was staring at his chest. And enjoying it.
Because they were attracted to each other, and he couldn’t deny that. It looked as though he couldn’t keep pushing it away, either. So, he was going to try. And the voice in the back of his head telling him he was going to go down in flames could shut up.
She leaned forward against the table, which, not that he noticed or anything, kind of pushed her breasts up against the neckline of her shirt and, um...
“So, what’s my truth or dare?”
“Uh. Um.” This was flirting. He wasn’t good at flirting. He wasn’t good at women. What was happening?
He finished the last gulp of his drink, taking the moment to rein in the panic. The ancient memory of laughing. It wasn’t going to happen here. He was pushing. “Pie first.”
She nodded, slicing another piece of pie and maneuvering it onto his plate. He picked up his fork. “O-okay. Truth.” He stared down at the pie. Think of something. “Why did you get your tattoo? I mean, why a bluebird?” Because of all the things he knew about her, he knew that the bluebird was some symbol to her, and it would give him a clue. A clue to deeper.
You should not push for deeper.
He found he didn’t care what he should do right in this moment. Not when she smiled at him, an inviting, sexy smile.
“And for a dare?”
“You could... You could...” He cleared his throat. Okay, he could do this. “I have no idea.” God, he was an idiot.
“No tit for tat?”
He somehow managed to not choke on the bite of pie in his mouth. He somehow managed to swallow despite all the things tit for tat brought to mind. “That doesn’t seem very gentlemanly.”
She wrinkled her nose. “You’re an interesting guy, Wes. I don’t know a lot of guys who would pass up the opportunity to get my shirt off.”
“I didn’t say I was passing it up,” he muttered.
“Okay, so what’s your dare?”
He shrugged. Whatever control he thought he’d harnessed petered out. It evaporated, because he knew this feeling so well. The complete and utter inability to know what to do next. What was she after? How could he do anything she’d ever expect or want, when he was always going to be the weirdo who couldn’t seal the deal?
Sure, he’d been able to afford Cara’s dinner tonight, and he’d kissed her without bumping noses or teeth. But that didn’t mean he could suddenly ignore the first eighteen years of his life as the butt of everyone’s joke. He couldn’t forget that even after the army, and therapy, he had tried and failed at this kind of thing.
Yeah, he didn’t feel much like playing games anymore. Sitting around with his shirt off like an idiot.
“Well, I pick truth. I got the tattoo after my grandma died. And, oh-em-gee, you should have heard my mother’s freak-out. But, see, my grandma had all these bluebird houses on her property, and we’d watch for them in the spring, and, I don’t know. She taught me how to make pies and somehow I was her favorite. Me. With two perfect, interested-in-farming-and-school sisters, som
ehow she liked me best.”
He glanced up at her and saw she was rubbing her index finger behind her ear where the tattoo was. “It made me feel like she was with me, even though she wasn’t.” She gave him a sheepish look. “Not a deep, dark secret.”
He couldn’t believe she’d be surprised someone would like her best. This bright and funny woman sitting across from him, putting him almost at ease. How could she not see herself for what she was? “If it makes you feel better, I don’t like anyone, and I tolerate you well enough. And I like you much better than your younger sister, though I suppose I haven’t met the older one formally.”
She chuckled. “Well, then, you’ll never meet her and know how much better she is than me. They both are, really. Smart and successful. They make all the right choices.” Somehow her voice managed to sound proud and wistful and sad all in a few sentences.
“You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself. School isn’t for everyone. And neither is farming, I wouldn’t think. You’re very smart. Look at my office. If that organization miracle isn’t successful, I don’t know what is.”
She stared at him, an oddly awed expression on her face. For a second, he thought she was going to smile, but then she shook her head, poking at the filling streaks on the bottom of the pie pan. “I still haven’t talked to Sam.”
“Who’s Sam?”
“The guy with the restaurant and the pie needs. He’s probably already found someone else. But I can’t pull the trigger.”
Failing to pull the trigger. Yeah, that sounded familiar.
“Don’t yell at me this time. I already know I suck.”
“I’m not going to yell at you.” When she’d told him about it last time, all he could think was she had a functioning arm to do her dream job and he didn’t, but now things felt different.
He had a functional penis, and he wasn’t exactly using that. At least not in any way that counted.
“What changed? Last time I hinted I couldn’t do what I wanted to do, you said, and I quote, ‘try harder.’”
He shrugged, feeling like an ass. Well, nothing new there. “Maybe I get the not-being-able-to-pull-the-trigger thing.”
She looked at him. “You know what? We’re both kind of pathetic.”
“I can’t argue with that.”
“So, let’s make a pact. An un-pathetic-ourselves pact. I’ll call Sam.” Her eyebrows drew together as if she was already regretting saying it, but then she shook her head. “And you’ll do whatever thing you’ve been holding back on, and we’ll keep each other accountable.” She held out her hand to shake.
He stared at it.
“Come on. Whatever it is. You want it, right? And you can have it?” He nodded. “Then shake. Because you should get something you want, Wes. You really should. And if I know you’ll be all cranky with me, maybe I’ll suck it up and get what I want.”
He swallowed. She was right. For some baffling reason he thought maybe he could overcome this. Maybe with Cara. Okay, maybe not. But maybe he could try.
The worst that could happen? He failed miserably, she quit and he hid out in his cabin like he already did. Was there something to lose here?
Her.
Well, hell, maybe he should lose her if he couldn’t suck it up and stop yo-yoing her all over the place.
“Okay.” He shook her hand firmly.
“Yay.” She started clearing things off the table, so he got up to help. He was still shirtless. Should he put his shirt back on? Leave it off?
She glanced at the clock, then at her empty glass as she placed it in the sink. “I feel like I should go, but...”
“You can crash on the couch if you need to.”
She smiled. “Thanks.” Then, with no warning at all, she flung her arms around his neck and gave him a quick peck, right on the mouth. Maybe she did that with everyone. And, well, he had kissed her before. So...
She released him, trailing her fingertips over the ends of his hair. “You need a haircut.”
“Yes.” Her arms weren’t around him, but she was close. Really close. Like see-all-her-eyelashes-and-feel-her-breath-on-his-neck close.
“So, that shaggy look isn’t for fashion? Or some anti-military protest?” Her hands were on his chest. Just resting there.
“N-no, it’s to avoid chatty hairdressers.”
“Ooh, I know!” She hopped back, clapping her hands, and he couldn’t help but be a little disappointed, even knowing he should tell her to run in the opposite direction. “I’ll cut it. I watched people cut hair for years.”
“Watched, not did?”
“I can’t make it any worse than it already is.”
Yeah, she had a point there. But the hair, the beard—it was his thing. The beard hid his scar, and the hair, okay, it wasn’t his thing, but cutting it—her cutting it—seemed like a big deal. “You’re drunk.”
“I’m not drunk. I just don’t want to risk driving.”
He shook his head. “I want the person cutting my hair with scissors not to be impaired, either.”
“Steady hand wins.” She held out her hand, palm parallel with the floor. When he stood there, she nodded at him. “Go on.”
He held out his left hand, and while it was steady, this whole thing was idiotic. He should tell her no and go to bed.
“Okay, fine, but leave the beard alone.”
She let out a little squeal of delight. “What about a teensy tiny little trim?”
He groaned. He was sunk. She’d put her hands on him, and he’d do whatever she wanted.
And her hands would be on him again, so there was that.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“SCISSORS.” CARA HELD out her hand, but Wes only shook his head.
“I can’t believe I’m letting you do this,” he grumbled.
They had wedged one of the kitchen chairs between the vanity and bathtub of his bathroom with just enough room for Cara to get around him. He was still shirtless—hello—and she’d draped one of his sad brown bachelor towels around his yummy shoulders.
Man, she had issues, but she had the feeling she might—just might—be helping Wes with his, and that somehow made anything worth it.
But, finally, he slapped the scissors into her palm. “Try not to maim me. I have enough scars.”
“Speaking of scars...”
She trailed off because she expected him to do the curt “no” thing, but then he didn’t say anything. “Maybe you could tell me now how you got them.” She held her breath, not sure why. It wasn’t as if he was going to rage at her for asking, but the way he wasn’t saying anything was new. It wasn’t a shutdown or a refusal.
“If I remember correctly, one of the rules was don’t look at or ask about my scars.”
“It’s not work hours.” She knew helping him get over the Liz thing wouldn’t be aided by things he didn’t want to talk about, but she felt as though she had to know this. Had to understand...something deeper about him to be able to handle this right. God, she hoped.
He made a humph sound, and she began to comb his hair. She was cutting his hair. She had somehow offered—insisted—on doing it. She’d blame the alcohol, but it had been a long time since two whiskey and Cokes had ever done much damage.
“I was part of a bomb sniffing dog unit, and we were defusing one when it...well, didn’t defuse.”
Her hands dropped. “You were defusing it?”
“It was Afghanistan. What exactly were you expecting?”
“I don’t know.” She took a slow, deep breath. She hadn’t a clue what to expect, but actually picturing him being knocked flat by a bomb he’d been defusing. It made her eyes prick with tears. Foolish, stupid tears. She blinked them away, breathing again as she focused on making the first snip to his hair, trying to emulate all the hairdressers she’d watched over the years.
“Anyway, I wasn’t actually working on the bomb when it went off. We were clearing the area, so I was far enough away it was mainly the blast knocking me flat. Landed on my hip
and arm. Got some shrapnel. Boom. Pin in hip. Nerve damage in arm.”
He’d been injured by a bomb. There was no way she’d ever be able to say the right thing or do the right thing when it came to that. Especially when, much like in the parking lot tonight, she only wanted to wrap her arms around him and hold on. Somehow hug it all away.
Which she was smart enough to know wasn’t possible. So, she kept cutting his hair, hoping he’d continue.
“I have to get surgery again.” He said it so quietly she didn’t think he’d meant to tell her that.
“I’m sorry, Wes. That sucks.” Such a lame response, but what else could she say?
He shrugged.
“Soon? I can help out however you need.” She hoped she could help. She could help with business stuff, surely. But hopefully, he wasn’t expecting...emotional help. Unless it’s physical comfort. She closed her eyes for a second. Thinking with her lady parts would not be the best thing to do here, but it was the best thing she knew how to do.
“I won’t need help.” There was that curt refusal she was used to. “I probably won’t have it done until the end of the market season. It’s not too bad, but I need my arm for market stuff, and it’s not pressing.” He stared at his hand, the one with the scars on it. “Or a guarantee.”
Her heart ached for him. Absolutely hurt. She didn’t know what to do with that, with the lump in her throat, or the feelings jostling around in her chest, so she worked silently.
To do the front parts of his hair she had to stand in front of him. Which meant she had to, like, actually look at him and, at times, have her boobs in his face. She would try to be good about it, she really would.
She combed the hair at the peak of his scalp straight up, judging what was the right length, snipping and letting the cut hair fall onto his back and the floor. She worked through the rest of his hair, occasionally sneaking a peek at him.
Always he was completely still, staring at some point beyond her. It made him seem very soldiery. All ramrod straight posture and complete stillness. Although once she did think she caught him staring at her chest. But it was such a quick flick of a glance she almost wondered if it was wishful thinking.
