No Perfect Hero(26)

“Like...boy-girl like?” she whispers.

“Like boy-girl like.”

“Oh,” Tara says, before her face lights up and she blushes, giggling and covering her mouth. “Ohhh. Wow.”

Nope.

Oh, God.

I have to end this.

It's bad enough that I'm sitting here, wondering how much hot blood can flow into my cheeks before I either pass out or burst into flames.

It keeps getting better.

Now my ten-year-old niece thinks the dick next door has a crush on me. Stifling my groan, I run my fingers through my hair, glancing back at the horizon and the beautiful sunset I’m missing, when I’d wanted to at least capture the general feel of the color palette on canvas.

“Go back inside so Warren and I can talk, kit,” I say, managing a smile for Tara. “I’ll be in soon to make dinner.”

Tara bites her lip, bouncing on her heels. I just know I’m going to have to field a thousand questions over dinner about whether I like Warren and if we’re going to kiss and be boyfriend-girlfriend.

No. No way. Abso-freaking-lutely not.

Damn that munchkin for even putting the thought in my head.

But she smiles too brightly to stay mad at, tumbles over, and tackles me with a quick hug, before pulling back and, with another little giggle, darting inside.

She’s humming under her breath. It's thirty seconds before I recognize the tune. It’s Haley and Warren, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G.

Meanwhile, Warren just stares, scratching at his neck like it's the most natural thing in the world to have my kid niece thinking we're a thing. And to have him standing here, as beast-like as ever, a storm in his eyes hinting at a conversation that might be the last thing on earth either of us need.

Somebody, please.

End me.





*



As the door slams shut, I slump back against the deck railing, furiously rubbing my temples. “Boy-girl like, huh? Thanks for that. Thanks a lot. Her mother’s going to kill me for speeding up that conversation by a couple years.”

“Sorry. My bad,” Warren says sheepishly, and he actually seems like he means it. “Had to think fast, Hay. So she wouldn’t be upset.”

But his lips are twitching, and so are mine. We can't hold it in forever.

Then we’re laughing.

Tired, rough, broken laughter, but laughter nonetheless, a thing so sharp it’s like a pin popping the balloon of tension between us, weary but oh-so-necessary.

I need it so bad. I need it to unravel the knots in my chest, to ease the prickling in my skin, the confusion in my brain.

And he just seems like he hasn’t laughed at all in a very long time.

As the hysterical little giggle fit passes, Warren slumps, leaning next to me on the railing, crossing his ankles and folding his arms over his chest, his biceps bulging hard against the sleeves of his t-shirt.

He’s not laughing anymore, but there’s still a warmth around his eyes, a curl at the corners of his mouth, as he sighs.

“Really,” he says, “I’m sorry, Hay. I didn’t mean to scare her. Or you. I just...fuck.”

He trails off. I watch him sidelong, then half-smile. “You’re really passionate about things when you care, aren’t you?” I lean over and bump his arm. “Even keeping people you don’t know safe. And then you get all worked up and explosive.”

He clears his throat, ducking his head. “Something like that.”

I grin. “You embarrassed, Warren?”

A sullen look darts toward me. “Shut it.”

“Nah.” I turn to the view, bending over to cross my arms on the railing. “What do you do, anyway?”

“Don’t think I need to tell you that.”

“What’s going to happen if you do?”

“Maybe nothing. Maybe you get hurt.” He looks past me at the canvas. “You were going to paint the mountains?”

“Maybe,” I muse, watching the brilliant blaze of colors as the sun disappears completely behind the distant peaks, making a corona around the mountaintop. “More like I want to paint how everything shifts and changes, right where that cliff drops off.” I prop my chin in my hand. “Have you ever heard of ukiyo-e?”

“Not much of an art critic here. I know I like looking at it. It’s pretty, and I admire people who can make something imaginary come alive. I sure as hell can’t.”

I smile to myself.

It’s a better answer than I expected.

Most people just dismiss the fine arts as a frivolous thing, scribbling for fun. “It’s a style of Japanese art. Most people recognize it when they see it even if they don’t know what it is. It borrowed a lot from Chinese art before it evolved to become its own thing. But one thing that's universal to both is how perspective gets created. There's a layering of foreground, midground, and background. The smaller objects become large in the foreground. Big ones turn smaller in the distance.” I nod toward the view beyond, where the dramatic curving cutoff of the cliff drops down to the valley, then the distant line of the mountains. “See? Just like that.”

“So the view here, Heart's Edge...” He looks over his shoulder, across the field to the cliff. “It’s ooh-kee-yo-ee?”

I can’t help laughing. “It could be inspiration.”