Finding Kyle(12)

“Thank you for helping me,” she says quietly, but I don’t bother to look at her. I merely pick up another sodden towel and take it to the sink. “And sorry I snapped at you about the quilt.”

“Did I ruin it?” I ask gruffly, not liking this feeling of guilt bubbling in my stomach.

“I don’t think so,” she returns, and I risk a look at her. She gives me an encouraging smile and says, “It should be fine.”

“Good,” I mutter and wring out the towel. “You own this place?”

“I rent,” she says lightly. “I’ll have to call the landlord.”

“The pipes probably need replaced,” I observe. “This place looks pretty old.”

“That’s gonna suck,” she mumbles as she pulls up a wet towel and walks toward me. “But after all, tomorrow is another day. Gone with the Wind. 1939.”

She gives me a cautious smile, filled with hope and optimism that this mess won’t be as dire as it seems.

“Did anyone ever tell you that quoting movie lines is annoying?” I ask bluntly, because I suck at polite conversation with a normal person.

Jane chuckles at me as she puts the wet towel over the sink and wrings it out. “All the time.”

I feel my lips start to curve upward, so I turn away from her before she can see. I should just throw the towel down and make my excuses to go, yet I find myself pulling another one up from the floor.

“I’m just glad it was confined to the kitchen,” Jane says. It’s clear she has no problem making conversation. “I’d be devastated if my art supplies had been ruined.”

It’s painfully clear she’s throwing out information to me, probably in an effort to get me interested. I clamp my mouth shut and don’t bother to inquire.

Jane’s not daunted though. She continues right on, and honestly… her voice is sweet, cheerful, and not at all hard to listen to. “I’m an art teacher, by the way. Teach middle, junior, and high school, and I tutor part time. I also paint and sell some of my stuff, but you know how it goes… starving artist and all that.”

No, I really don’t know how it goes. Never met an artist. Never been interested in art unless the quality of my tattoos counts.

There are several minutes of silence that seem awkward to me as we continue to work, but I bet Jane’s not fazed. She seems the type to take things in stride with an unfailing well of optimism to bolster herself.

When we get up most of the water, I place the towel I’d just wrung out onto the kitchen counter and decide to make myself scarce. “I’m going to head out—”

“So what’s your story?” she asks at the same time.

My body tightens as my walls go up. “No story. Just moved here seeking some solitude.”

Jane throws a wet towel in the sink with a splat and shakes her head. Her eyes are knowing when she says, “No. There’s a story there for sure.”

“Don’t know what to tell you,” I say dismissively as I grab my tool bag.

“Where you from originally?” she throws out.

The words come out involuntarily, and I cringe over my lack of control. “Maryland.”

“Did you always live there?”

“No.”

“Where else have you lived?” she pushes at me.

“All over,” I hedge.

“You’re sort of vague,” she points out.

“Exactly.”

“And taciturn.”

“Also true.”

“Yeah,” she says with a chuckle as her eyes sparkle with amusement. “There’s a story there. But don’t worry. I won’t prod at you too much. I respect secrets.”

I give a grunt of acknowledgment and nod my head. “Well, I got work to do at the cottage…”

“So there’s an art and music festival in town this weekend,” she says in an abrupt change of subject. I brace because I sense another one of her spontaneous attempts to go out with me. “You should come. I’ve got a booth there, and you can see some of my artwork.”

“Not really my thing,” I say, trying to sound gentle.

And why in the hell am I being gentle with her?

I’m not a gentle man.

I ease past Jane toward the front door, giving her a wide berth. I need some space from her.

“There’s going to be some great music too,” she calls after me. I don’t ease up on my strides, because, in the last twenty minutes or so, I’ve come to learn that Jane is a very tempting woman despite all of my senses screaming at me to stay away from her.

“No thanks,” I say loud enough that she can hear.

I’m at the door but still close enough I hear her sigh with something that borders between frustration and resignation. “Okay. Well, thanks again for helping me out.”

I stop right in the middle of the doorway, my hand on the knob, preparing to pull it shut behind me. Looking over my shoulder at her, I make myself smile at her. It takes great effort and feels forced on my face. I’m sure she sees that as well.

“Thanks for dinner last night,” I tell her. “It was really good.”

She beams those pearly whites back at me, and fuck it to hell… I see hope blossoming in her eyes, which are a stunning shade of meadow green. “I’m glad. I’ll make it again sometime for you.”