No Perfect Hero(44)

That, and I really hate losing a dare.

But I’m still a mess of flutters and erratic breaths.

Jesus, I must look so weird standing here, fidgeting and breathing in rapid little pants and clutching a gift bag. Maybe that’s why he gives me an odd look when he comes to the door and balks.

It's just a moment's hesitation, him looking through the glass, staring at me like he’s debating whether or not he wants to open up. My cheeks bloom with heat.

Oh boy.

He’s probably wondering if I’m drunk again. And I can't blame him.

I still can’t believe I let myself go that bad, and he had to take care of me, even if it was sweet of him. That’s the other thing I’m thanking him for.

Even if like hell I’ll say that part out loud.

I’d rather never mention it again.

After a few skeptical moments, he opens the door and braces one brawny forearm against the frame, stretching his long, tight body out in a near slouch of chiseled muscle, that shirt doing obscene – and I mean ob-fricking-scene – things to his chest.

I think it’s licking him. Can a shirt lick someone?

“Need something, Hay?” he drawls lazily.

Um. Oh, crap.

Dragging my gaze back to his face, taking a deep breath, I reach down and find my courage.

Then I thrust the bag at his chest.

“Thank you!” I blurt out like a nervous kid, and the second he has a handle on the bag, grabbing it with his blue eyes wide and thick fingers fumbling not to drop it...

I'm off.

I turn tail and run, escaping the few steps to my door and slamming it sharply behind me, only to collapse against it and pray he won’t follow. My legs hurt. My chest hurts more, and my head is just chaos.

I need to clear my mind. Stop letting it wander.

Because I can’t look at Warren Ford that way. Or any way.

He’s a dick, remember?

I’m not staying here, and he’s up to something shady.

I’m done with shady men, supposedly, and I can’t let him rope me in just because he’s been nice to me a few times, and my niece adores him. Just because he looks like a small town Samson put on Earth to make me wet and angry.

Tara's not the only one who adores him, some dirty traitor voice inside me whispers.

“Shut up,” I hiss.

Tara peeks over the arm of the couch where she’s cuddling with Mozart. “Auntie Hay? Who're you talking to?”

I freeze, then plaster on a slightly manic smile.

“Nobody, sweetie,” I say. “Just your crazy aunt talking to herself.”

I wrinkle my nose. You know it's bad when a man has you talking third person.

Shoving Warren out of my head, I rise to my feet. “C’mon. Let’s give Mozart his five minutes a day out of that torture device so he can eat.”





8





Spinning In My Head (Warren)





Sometimes, Haley West makes my head hurt even worse than my dick.

It’s been a breakneck few days trying to track Bress when suddenly he’s gone incognito. No one seems to know where he is, meaning long nights of stakeouts.

I spend half my time crouched in the trees near his secluded house in the woods, watching as he comes driving in at two or three in the morning. He steps out of the car with those weary hangdog motions that always make him look like he needs a friend's shoulder, versus a fist to the face.

It’s part of how he keeps people fooled. No one wants to accuse a war veteran who looks so hung out to dry of being the reason why hard drugs are funneling into Heart’s Edge, the gruesome price of the sudden cash influx into the economy.

I haven’t had much time to think about Hay.

Hell, I won’t let myself think about Hay.

Because if I think about her, I’m going to worry.

I’ve been worried since that night in the hot tub. This whole mess isn’t right.

Her stuck here after some shitty guy chased her away from the crumbles of her old life. She shouldn’t be in this situation. And while she’s damn brave and stubborn, I’m worried the stress of it will push her to crack. But that’s a distraction I can’t afford right now, and up until the incident with Mozart, I’d managed to push her out of my mind.

Only now I’ve got a constant reminder of her, staring at me from across the coffee table where I’ve hung it up on the wall.

It’s a painting.

Whatever I’d been expecting when she thrust that bag on me and bolted, it wasn’t this.

It’s small, just a little bit over a foot on each side, but it’s full of her.

Bold, brilliant colors in tones that capture the sheer luminous wild of a sunset over the mountains in Heart’s Edge. I don’t even know when she found time to finish it, between her shifts at Brody’s and looking after Tara.

No denying she’s damn good. Beautifully talented.

And bold enough not to back down from a dare.

She makes a good coffee cake, too. I take another bite of the second half of her gift while I lean back on the couch, drumming my fingertips against the side of my coffee mug.

I don’t even like sweet things, but this is just right. So's the painting, making this space feel different.

Human.

Sometimes, after Jenna, I think I’ve forgotten what that is. All those little human touches that make a life, versus every day lived with a militant sense of purpose.