No Perfect Hero(69)

She’s quiet, but she doesn’t tense. Doesn’t tell me with her body language that she’s upset or angry or rejecting the idea, or even scared. She’s just thoughtful, and after a minute she licks her lips and says, “And by a few more times, you mean?”

“Whatever we want it to mean. A thing. For now.”

“For now.”

“Since you’re not staying, I mean.”

“I’m not?” she says tentatively, and my chest tightens like that’s the only way to keep my heart from slamming right through it.

My arms tighten on her, then relax, and I take a deep, steadying breath. “What’re you saying, Haley? You've got Chicago waiting. Soon as you've got your cash reserve replenished, you'll–”

“I’m saying I like it here, Warren. And it’ll be a good long while before I save up enough money to start over again in a city that expensive. I don’t have a free place to crash there. Crazy cost of living and all, so...” Her words are casual, but her voice is anything but.

It's hitching and soft and nervous. I can feel her heartbeat slamming against me, twin to mine, like we’re two stiff statues who can’t quite say the right thing. If we’d just let them, our hearts would break away from all our problems and crash together into something simple and bright. “So, yeah. I’ll probably stay. For a while. Maybe a long while.” She swallows audibly. “So if we had 'a thing' as you so eloquently call it...”

“Have,” I correct sharply.

“Have?”

“We have a thing, Hay,” I whisper.

Fuck, everything is chapped inside me, and I cup her face to kiss her, drawing her up into words that I print against her mouth as I draw her toward the door, the bed, another round of this furious, needy thing between us.

“We have a thing, beautiful. And I’m okay with it not having an end date.”





13





Pregnant Silence (Haley)





During my entire shift at Brody’s, I can’t help thinking about what Warren said.

We have a thing. And I’m okay with it not having an end date.

Sweet Jesus.

I’m not even sure what he means. 'A thing' without an end date might mean anything in strange, growly mountain man speak.

Honestly? I’m not sure I want clarity.

Because I’m not the only one who’s only in town temporarily.

With him bounty hunting whoever he’s after, he’ll probably finish his job here and move on when he’s ready. Hell, it’ll be funny if he leaves before I do, when I don’t even belong here.

Do I?

Waitressing at Brody’s isn’t exactly a dream job. But it’s fun and mindless and the people here like me.

They give me the social fix my extrovert half needs, which makes me feel at home in this little town that’s nothing like Seattle or Chicago or anywhere I’d ever imagined living.

Plus, it leaves me free to have my life on my own terms with my paints and canvases every morning, my feet tired but my mind on fire and my soul at ease. Here in Heart’s Edge, everything is simpler, with the exception of one hulking man.

Work doesn't leave me with a dozen deadlines hanging over my head like the office did. I can just walk away from Brody's without more burdens following me home and crushing my creative drive.

And it’s weird to think that right now, as I sling drinks and wipe down tables and laugh with the regulars, that I'm actually looking forward to going home.

I can't wait to see the cabin and find Warren and Tara and Mozart waiting for me.

It’s near dawn by the time I finish helping with cleanup and shutdown and pile myself and my sore, aching feet into the Mustang.

It’s a picturesque place by day, but in the early morning darkness, there’s something sweet and magical about it.

Here, it's one more lovely little house settled among its neighboring cabins with the stars winking out one by one overhead. The only light is the faint glimmer of lamps through a window here and there, like fireflies in the dark.

One of those lights is on in my cabin, and it guides me home like a beacon.

It's hard to keep a Mustang quiet, but I try just in case I’m waking Warren up.

I shouldn't worry. Before I left, I told him it was okay to treat my half of the cabin like his, and maybe deep down after that conversation this evening, I hoped he'd wait for me.

I’m not disappointed.

But when I ease the door open on the darkened living room, it’s not his voice I hear between the heavenly smell of scrambled eggs and bacon and brewing tea. It’s Ms. Wilma’s, and she’s murmuring soft things to Tara as she eases my niece down on the sofa and covers her with a blanket.

I tilt my head, blinking. Warren’s in the kitchen in a grey denim apron of all things, making a cartoon caricature out of himself as he cooks with exaggeratedly quiet gestures. I smile, knowing how focused those thick fingers of his can be.

He looks up as I step in and grins, holding a finger to his lips, nodding toward Tara. Ms. Wilma straightens and smooths her skirt with a quick, warm smile for me.

“She woke up and said she wanted to come home to wait for you,” she whispers. “I couldn’t say no, dearie, but the little turnip was unconscious before I even got her here.”