by Anna Sugden
Even with a woman who put him at enough ease to talk, to truth or dare, to kiss. Nothing stopped the inevitable fall.
This was hopeless.
I’m not running away scared.
He pulled his pillow over his face to muffle the groan. Why for any reason under the sun would she want to stick around?
I like you. I’m attracted to you.
And if he were normal, he supposed, that would be that. Dates. Sex. Fun. Maybe even a relationship. But he wasn’t that normal guy. He couldn’t be.
He rolled over and glanced at his alarm clock. Four thirty. Late enough. As quietly as possible, he got ready for his morning chores, sneaking out to the barn with Phantom, hopefully without waking Cara.
It was dark outside, and the dogs wouldn’t expect him quite this early. “Let’s go for a walk, Phantom,” he said into the heavy silence of morning. He detoured to his truck and grabbed a flashlight, though he wasn’t sure he’d need it.
The path to the creek was as familiar as anything in his life. Comforting. He stood with Phantom next to the rock that had gone from his to his and Cara’s and wondered how all of this had crashed together in a few short weeks. A month ago, he’d barely known she existed, and now he couldn’t seem to get rid of her.
Couldn’t seem to want to.
“I should want to,” he said aloud, and Phantom leaned against him. He had to...scare her off.
Only he couldn’t at all stomach even the thought of it. She’d infused his life with something he’d been missing.
Company. Color. Comfort.
He’d never made any best friends in the army, but he’d been surrounded by a certain camaraderie. Losing that had been hard. But inevitable.
He was made to lose.
Phantom let out a low woof, then began trotting back up to the cabin.
“Phantom. Heel.”
Wes hurried after him; it was so rare that Phantom disobeyed a command. Something must be wrong.
Oh, God, Cara’s in the cabin. Alone. He ran back to the cabin, ignoring the pain in his hip, but he came to an abrupt halt next to the porch.
There she was, wearing his coat. How did the sun always find her? It was barely above the horizon, and yet it lit her up and made her seem like some kind of reachable fantasy.
She wasn’t. She wasn’t.
“’Morning,” she called, patting Phantom, who was happily thumping his tail by her side. No emergency. No reason to disobey. Just...her.
“’Morning,” he replied gruffly. “I have chores to do yet.”
“I’ll come with you.”
She was down the stairs before he could protest, petting Phantom’s head and falling into step next to them. He should be short with her. Tell her to leave. Instead, she broke the silence first.
“I’ve been thinking.”
“Don’t.”
She slanted a look at him.
“Don’t think. Don’t try to fix. Go home, get ready for work and come back forgetting last night ever happened.” He kept his gaze on the barn no matter how much the sun licked her face and made everything inside of him hope and want.
Don’t do it. You will lose. You always lose.
“I already told you no,” she said, so resolute he wanted to yell in frustration, much like he’d done into his pillow earlier.
“Well, I don’t agree with you.”
She shrugged. “Too bad, so sad.” She smiled at him as he jerked open the barn doors, a herd of animals greeting him. Greeting them.
“Like I said, I was thinking. All night, really. You talked about therapy and stuff you did with the army. Did you ever talk to anyone about this?”
He glared. “You’re going to push this no matter what I say.”
She grinned. “Yup.”
Impossible, infuriating woman. Yes, those were the feelings she brought out in him. Nothing warm or hopeful. She was a pain.
“So, when you were talking to professionals about your anxiety for army stuff, did you mention this?” she prompted, checking water bowls and going about their lunchtime routine this morning as if this was also routine.
Well, fine. Let her. Because he was about to burst her bubble. “Yes.”
She paused. “And it didn’t help?”
“Nope.” He’d been hopeful it would. About two years ago, armed with a therapist’s stamp of approval, a growing business and mostly healed injuries—aside from the lingering pain. He’d gone to a bar downtown.
All the therapy and calming techniques and antianxiety medication hadn’t done anything to make him not panic once the poor unsuspecting woman had taken him back to her place.
What is wrong with you?
It hadn’t been mean or ridiculing like Liz. She’d been genuinely, rightfully confused. And it had put a stop to him thinking he had a chance at ever doing this. If he thought he could and he couldn’t, if he had professional help and he couldn’t, he couldn’t. He’d live.
“I’m sorry.”
“I don’t need your pity, Cara. Just give this up.”
They worked in silence, feeding and watering and petting the animals. Normally he would do his exercises now, but maybe he’d just skip that today.
Cara whirled on him suddenly. “Wait! Did she know?”
He shook his head. Give up. Give up on me. Please. “Did who know what?”
“The girl you met after the therapy. Did she know that you had this...issue?”
“Of course not. I was trying to get laid. I was a twenty-eight-year-old virgin. Why would I tell anyone that?”
“Then that’ll be the difference.” She beamed, one hand resting on Phantom’s dark head. The dog panted and looked so damn content Wes wanted to growl.
“The difference?”
“I know all about it. So, I’ll be able to ease you through it. It’ll work, because if you get a little...nervous, I’ll know why. And you know I know, so...it’ll work. We’ll make it work.”
“Why? Why would you want to do this?” Why couldn’t she just leave him to his life and his misery? Monks and priests went their whole lives without sex.
She frowned, hand still resting on his dog’s head, gaze somewhere off in the distance. “I’m not...good at a lot of things,” she said, sounding way more sincere than he wanted her to.
He couldn’t yell at sincere. He couldn’t growl at it and tell it to go away. He knew too much what it meant when someone would listen to your sincere, and think on it, deem it important enough to consider.
“But...and I know what this makes me sound like, but I am good at sex. I’ve been around the block, and I know what I’m doing and how to put someone at ease. Those are things that you need to take a step forward in your life, and I like you enough to want to give that to you.”
She blew out a breath, finally making hesitant eye contact with him. “I don’t get to do a lot of things that help people, because I usually mess it up. I know how to give a makeover—so, that’s what I did for my sister. I know how to have sex. So, that’s what I can do for you. And, in return, I get to feel remotely good about myself.”
“And if you fail?” She looked stricken. “Okay, if I fail and freak out—like last night—what then?”
Her eyebrows drew together, everything about her expression pained, but in the end she shrugged. “Then I failed. We can try again, or we can give up, depending.”
“Depending on what?”
Her fingers smoothed down the top of Phantom’s head, a rhythmic repeated movement, mesmerizing.
“Guess we’ll have to play it by ear.”
He knew what he should say, and just as he knew it was the smart thing to do, the right thing to do, the thing he had to do—he knew what words would come out of his mouth. “All right.”
* * *
CARA BLEW OUT the breath she’d been holding. He’d agreed. Clear as day. All right. Of course, not before scaring the living crap out of her.
And if you fail?
She hadn’t been looking at sex
as a potential failure. But what if he was right? If a therapist couldn’t fix it, why on earth would she be able to?
Her. Cara Pruitt.
Ha! It might be sex, but it was still important, and she didn’t do important. She’d made him agree only to find out—
“Cara?”
She couldn’t do this. She couldn’t not do this. Trailing her palm over Phantom’s head, over and over, letting it soothe her in the weird way it did. She forced what she hoped to God was a cheerful, easy smile. “Yeah. So, I’m going to go home and shower and get ready for the day. I’ll come back. We’ll do our work like we normally do, and at five, I’ll make you dinner.”
“You’ll make me dinner.”
“Yes. If all you eat is sandwiches and hamburgers, you obviously need a home-cooked meal. It’ll be like a date.”
“Yes, please, make this less appealing to me.”
She didn’t know how she could legitimately smile while she was panicking on the inside, but the dry way he made the date sound like something to dread made her feel less pressure.
Surely she could live up to his low expectations. She might fail, yes, but maybe if she kept trying, it would give him the confidence to get over the hump.
Or, they could both need therapy afterwards.
It certainly wouldn’t be the worst thing. Maybe someone could explain to her the whole life-not-fitting feeling.
“Cara?”
“Right, then.” She tried to act cool. Calm, cool, collected Cara. That was her! “So, I’ll be back soon. For work. And then tonight we’ll deal with the other stuff.”
“You’re sure—”
“Absolutely.” She couldn’t let him let her off the hook. Not on this. “See you soon.”
She turned to go, but suddenly his fingers had curled around her elbow.
“You have to call the guy.”
The words didn’t make sense because words couldn’t possibly make sense while a delicious trail of heat encircled her arm and spread across her chest. His grip was firm, his gaze was direct and blazing with that serious intent of his.
Maybe they could skip work? But he was talking about calling someone or something or... “What?”
“If I agree to this, it’s our pact. You help me with...my thing, and you have to do your thing.”
“My...” Sam. Pies. Disappointment. Add more pressure to this day. This was what she got for sticking her nose and her sad do-gooder tendencies where they didn’t belong. “Oh. Right. That. He’ll probably say no to a second interview. He probably already found someone else. So, there’s no po—”
“The point is that you try. Maybe he says no. Maybe it is filled, but you won’t know if you don’t ask. And he may need pies some other time, and you calling and asking for a second shot means maybe he’ll give you one someday. There’s no way I pay you enough to have this be your only job.”
Her chest was going to cave in. She was going to die right here of the crushing pain of absolute determined failure. He wasn’t even going to argue with her that Sam would probably refuse.
And Wes wanted her to do it anyway?
“Having now actually eaten your pie, I know he would be crazy not to give you a shot.”
She closed her eyes against the warmth of feeling. He’d probably seen how freaked out she was and just offered a placating compliment, but the thing about placating compliments was sometimes they worked. She opened her eyes and slid him a flirty glance.
He did one of those half smiles, the faint telltale smudge of blush right above his beard. God, he was adorable, and he was in her very wrong hands.
But they were the only hands she had, so she was going to have to suck it up and do it. Much like when Mia kept steadfastly refusing Anna’s advice on how to dress, how to present herself. Cara had had to step in because she couldn’t let Mia keep folding in on herself, when she was so much better. So much better than you.
So, she’d have to channel that again. She’d helped Mia. She could help Wes.
Hopefully.
“I’ll be back,” she offered, sliding her arm out of his grasp, a trail of goose bumps on her forearm.
That attraction they had was something. And if nothing else, she knew how to deal with that. So, that’s where she’d start.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
LUCKILY, WES WAS used to preparing for impending disaster. For nearly eight years, his life had been all about preparing for possible disaster. Preparing for war.
So, as they went through the day, him making and organizing treats, her pestering him to order new business cards and redo his budget to include an advertising section, inwardly, he prepared for war.
The problem with this war was that the enemy was himself. Dick versus brain. Not the most unique of wars for men, which was an odd kind of comfort. Hey, part of this was normal.
Don’t get too ahead of yourself.
She wanted to magically cure years of trauma that he’d mainly invented in his head. Okay, maybe not invented, but... This was very much an in-his-head thing. He knew that.
He’d come to terms with it not being his fault per se. He hadn’t caused Liz to run around school telling everyone he was some kind of pathetic sex freak—despite oh, never having had sex. He wasn’t even in total control of his reaction to that. Therapy had given him a certain...clarity. Enough to say he’d been dealt a shitty blow.
But it was a blow he hadn’t been able to shake.
I know. That’ll be the difference.
He’d love to not believe her. To be certain she was an idiot for thinking knowing would make a difference. And a large portion of his brain told himself that. This was impending disaster. At the hand of a beautiful woman who wanted to help. Who thought she could. Who made octo-pies and lit up the air simply by existing. He scrubbed both hands over his face.
You should probably go back to therapy.
“Wes?”
He didn’t jump out of his skin, but it was only military training that kept him immobile. Slowly, he turned to face her.
Her shoulders were thrown back, a smile that was just a pinch too bright to be genuine stretching across her mouth. “So, my famous enchilada casserole, or chicken à la Cara?”
It took his mind a minute to engage enough to realize she was asking what he wanted for dinner. Because it was five o’clock.
At her pleasant stare, he forced himself to concentrate. Mental preparation, he’d done it. All day. All. Day. He could do this. And if he didn’t? Well, at least she’d stop trying. “What’s chicken à la Cara?”
“A surprise.”
“The other one, then.”
She laughed, going to the fridge and gathering the supplies she’d shoved there when she’d returned this morning.
“What can I do to help?” Please, say disappear until it’s ready.
“Sit there and look pretty,” she replied, nudging the fridge closed with her hip.
For a moment, he was so mesmerized by that hip and the possibility of seeing it without the skintight jeans she so frequently wore, he didn’t even notice the aching pain in his.
Remember the plan. Which was to not think about sex until there was nakedness involved. And even then, a one-step-at-a-time type thinking. Because if he refused to think about it, it wouldn’t build up in his mind.
Right. Because he had control over his mind. That was the exact problem. The rational parts of his brain didn’t stand a prayer against the irrational ones.
Focus. Dinner. Conversation. Save the crazy for later. “So, um, did you call the pie guy?”
She opened her mouth, then turned away from him. “Do you like cilantro?” she asked conversationally, dumping what looked like already-cooked ground hamburger into the skillet she’d arranged. She added chopped onions, a can of some kind of red sauce, a few dashes of different spices she’d brought.
“Cara.”
“It can be a very divisive herb,” she said, keeping her back to him as she pushed the mixture around with a spat
ula. Which looked wholly unfamiliar. Had she imported her entire kitchen? “Some people won’t touch a food that’s even been in the same vicinity as cilantro.”
“So, what you’re saying is, no, you did not call him.”
“I will tomorrow,” she replied brightly, a fluttery wave of her arm before she started pulling tortillas out of a bag.
“You were supposed to do it today. That was the deal.”
She tossed the tortillas in a dish and whirled on him. “I tried! I did. I called. Twice!” She threw her arms in the air. “But he answered and I just...blanked. I’ve never...begged someone for a second chance before. It’s awful. You have no idea—”
At his raised eyebrow, she groaned. “Okay, you have every idea of everything, supreme freaker-outer of the universe. Happy?” She turned back to her dinner preparations, slopping the skillet mixture on to the tortilla.
He didn’t say anything in return. What was there to say? But there was something he could do. He retreated to the office, grabbing a pad of paper and a pen.
He returned to the kitchen with them, finding her grumbling to herself and filling tortillas. There were two routes he could take. The kind, careful one, or the jerk one.
His first instinct, the one he tended to fight off, was the comforting one. He didn’t like to see people upset or hurt. If he liked that, he’d probably be a lot better off. But, he’d gotten in the habit of being a jerk to people because it was easier than trying to maneuver the complex pieces that went with a relationship of any kind.
So, he slapped the paper on the table. She looked at it and him over her shoulder as she poured cheese on top of the tortillas she’d put together. “What’s that?”
“It’s a pen and a piece of paper. When you’re done with that, you’re going to sit down and write out what you want to say. Then, you’re going to call him.”
She blinked at him, her mouth hanging open. Why should she be surprised? He talked to her like that enough. Granted, about work stuff, but...
“Why are you telling me what to do?”
“Apparently you need it. We had a deal.”
“It’s a stupid deal.”
“Then you can leave your tortillas for me to eat and head home and keep your hands off me.” He crossed his arms over his chest in an effort to look intimidating instead of hopeful.
