Friction(47)
“I hated seeing you hurt more,” I blurt out. Backing away from the counter, he gives me a look I can’t quite place—quirked lips and slightly narrowed eyes—and I nibble on my bottom lip as he washes his hands. By the time he returns, I’ve regained some semblance of confidence, so I turn the bar stool to face him and motion for him to give me his hand. When he hesitates, I roll my eyes and gently tug his fingers into mine. His thighs are hard against my knees, but I pretend not to notice as I make sure he’s cleaned his wound thoroughly.
“Just because I don’t like blood doesn’t mean I can’t wrap a bandage.” I spritz antiseptic spray over his palm. “Tom used to come home with all sorts of cuts and scrapes from playing soccer with his friends on Sundays, so I learned to suck it up to help him out.”
“I hope you gave him a few cuts and scrapes after you found out about his mistress.”
The laughter that bubbles from the back of my throat is so harsh it burns. “Tom cheated on me with his business partner, Shane.” I regret saying those words a split second after they fall from my lips, and I sit frozen, staring at Jace’s palm until the edges of his cut blur.
“Williams, I—”
“I … didn’t hurt him when he told me, though I wanted to.” Jace clenches his fingers, and I let out a choked sound as I reach for a gauze pad. “And now, I feel like a complete fool for telling you this.”
“Did he tell you how long it lasted?”
“Since a few months before we got married. I went with my mother to Vietnam after my dad died and Tom and Shane hooked up then.” Wrapping the bandage around the gauze on his palm, I swallow back the pressure in my chest. “Instead of letting me know he was in love with someone else, he married me. And then he wanted me to carry on like nothing ever happened because I was lucky to snag him.”
“Did he tell you that?” Jace demands, his voice low and dangerous.
“Yes.” And then, as I finish dressing his wound, I find myself telling Jace Exley everything. About being the bearded dragon of Java-Org. About Tom’s demands for counseling and the loss of so many mutual friends. And about the weight of inadequacy—of failure—that’s dragged me down since my ex-husband revealed that our life together was a fa?ade.
“And then I moved back home,” I whisper in a devastated voice. “Because that’s what twenty-seven-year-olds do when they fucking fail at life.”
When I drop the F-bomb, an emotion I can’t place passes over Jace’s features. For a moment, he remains completely still. When I start to slide off the barstool, though, he stops me by leaning in to me. If I so much as breathe I’ll be able to taste his wintermint gum, but he steals my breath away before that can happen by brushing his knuckles over my cheek.
“Hearing you say that word,” he murmurs, and I dart my tongue over my lips. “Seeing you do that…”
“What?”
“You know exactly what. But, for what it’s worth, you’re not a failure. Duncan is just a fucking prick who made you think that to make himself feel better. I’m happy you left him.” His knuckles trail down to my collarbone, and I arch against him as he hoarsely adds, “Even if I can’t have you, I’m happy you’re not with someone like him.”
“You can’t have me or you don’t want to?”
“Oh, Williams, there’s nothing I want more, but I can’t do that because I don’t want to ruin things with you.” He strokes his thumb over the hollow of my throat, circling my skin slowly until my breath comes out in short gasps. Releasing a guttural groan, he forces himself away from me, dragging his fingers through his hair, no longer seeming to care about his wounded hand. “You deserve better than what I can give you emotionally. And that’s why I can’t show you exactly what I want from you, Lucy.”
Seventeen
Lucy
The words Jace spoke to me just before retreating from his kitchen to put on another shirt and change his jeans are embedded in my brain for the next few days, and on Thursday, I realize what an incredibly stupid idea it was for me to agree to go with him to Albany. Sure, it's a relatively short drive, but three hours of sitting next to the man who's invaded my thoughts and dreams for the last several weeks is a stressful experience.
For starters, he smells too damn good, like his shirt I wore home last week. Like the inside of his house. The low heat blowing from the vents on either side of the dashboard makes breathing him in more unbearable, and I find myself holding my breath more often than not just so I won't fall under the spell that's Jace Exley's incredible scent.
And then, of course, he looks amazing. I'm not sure which Jace I prefer—the disheveled man I've gotten used to seeing covered in dirt and metal day in and day out, or the one sitting next to me—but I'm not foolish enough to deny that both manage to take my breath right from my lungs with little effort.
At some point between yesterday evening and this morning, he’d trimmed his beard, and when he came into my office an hour ago to let me know it was time to go, I immediately noticed he’d somewhat tamed his unruly brown hair. He's upgraded his usual work pants for dark gray wash jeans, his welding boots for expensive-looking brown leather, and has temporarily traded in his flannel shirt for a gray tee shirt that proudly displays the tattoos on his biceps. Although it's in the low twenties today, he isn't wearing a jacket. When I had pointed out how cold it is on the way to his car, he'd muttered that driving in coats makes him feel claustrophobic.