Beard Necessities (Winston Brothers, #7)(38)

She yelped, jumping back against the counter and gripping it, her eyes round and startled.

“Oh goodness.” She chuckled nervously after a prolonged second. “You scared the pickles outta me.”

I dropped my eyes and clamped my jaw shut, feeling just how much of a creeper I was when the heat of embarrassment scrambled up my neck to my temples. It was the first time I’d blushed since I was a teenager, I reckon. Good thing I had the beard to hide the worst of it.

“Sorry I scared you.” Even though I’d cleared my throat, the words came out gruff as I strolled into the kitchen.

Taking the tray to the sink, I noted how she backed up at my approach to give me a wide berth, and then she backed up further, as though looking for the nearest exit. A humorless laugh escaped me. The level of Scarlet’s commitment to keeping her distance was as absurd as it was infuriating.

Twisting over my shoulder, not meaning to glare at her, though that’s likely what I did, I snapped, “You don’t need to leave. I’ll be done in just a minute.”

Her lips in a thin, straight line, all signs of her earlier joyful abandon locked up tight, she said, “Fine.” Her lashes flickered, her eyes falling like she found it difficult to look at me.

Turning back to the sink, I flipped on the faucet and pointed out the obvious, “You don’t have to leave every time I walk into a room.”

The press of her eyes on my back, I sensed her drift closer. “I’m just trying to obey your wishes.”

I felt my lips curve into a grimacing smile. “Obey.” No. Scarlet had never obeyed me. Not once.

“That’s right, Your Royal Highness,” she said sweetly, moving into my peripheral vision where several ingredients had been spread out on the counter. “I exist only to respond to your commands, didn’t you know?”

What I knew was, even though her words were meant to be sarcastic, they had an arousing effect. And that, too, struck me as absurd and infuriating.

Which was probably why I growled, “Oh yeah? Then jump.”

She smacked her palm on the counter. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her turn and face me. “How high?” she asked flatly.

I stilled, giving her a quick glance. Scarlet was scowling at me with all the intensity of an inferno. I blinked. I turned off the faucet, setting the plate I’d been washing to the side, and wiped my hands dry on the towel by the sink. Leaning my hip—my good hip—against the counter, I crossed my arms and studied this gorgeous and angry woman.

The problem with Scarlet was, no matter how she was looking at me, I found her endearing. Disdain, anger, sadness, joy, shyness, apprehension, frustration—made no difference. Just her looking made me want to draw her closer.

“Something on your mind, Scarlet?” Since I was already looking at her, I indulged in a moment to study the woman. Her skin was too pale, had no color, especially given it was summer in Italy, and she had faint smudges of gray under her eyes. She’s not getting enough sleep.

“You . . .” She lifted her chin, crossing her arms too, like she was locking a shield into place, and began again, “I am not a carpet. Folks don’t get to just wipe their feet on me, not anymore. I’m done with that.”

What? “Carpet?”

“You’re irritating is all.”

“Oh? Is that all?” I asked quietly.

This, her anger, was so much safer than her softness; I could be near her without losing anything but my temper. I could talk to her without hoping for more later. It would be a simple exchange of furious words, and then it would be over, and I wouldn’t have to dream about or wish for something impossible.

“Yes. I mean, you tell me to keep my distance, so I do.” She flung her hands in the air. “Then you come down here and try to make me feel foolish for keeping my distance.”

“I made you feel foolish?”

She dropped her voice and her accent, and said, “‘Stay away from me, Scarlet. Oh, wait. Obviously, I didn’t mean leave.’”

I smiled at her impression of me, just a small one, a slight curve of the lips. I didn’t smile to make her angry, I swear. It was just so funny, and she was so frickin’ cute.

But given how her eyelids lowered and her eyes glittered, she didn’t find my smile amusing.

“You know what I think?” Her tone dripped with venom. “I think you like playing with people, making them dance to your tune and then changing it. You’re engaged, but it’s fake. You’ll always want me, until you don’t. You want to talk, but only about subjects that you want to talk about. You’ll always be there for me, until I don’t do exactly what you want exactly when you want it, or until a damsel in distress comes along who needs Billy Winston’s white horse. You’re in love with whatever or whoever you can’t have, but as soon as—"

Enough.

Without thinking, I advanced on her. She backed up, her eyes widening, but she scrambled just two steps before seeming to remember herself. Balling her hands into fists, Scarlet set her arms straight at her sides and angled her chin as I invaded her space.

“Honey,” I rough-whispered so I wouldn’t shout, my arms falling so I could get closer to her, “if I thought you would ever actually give yourself to me, if I could have you, really and truly have you, I’d take you. Right now. Right here.”