Unbreakable (Cloverleigh Farms, #4)(12)

“No. Go ahead.” I surprised myself by pressing the issue—talking about my feelings was my least favorite thing to do. Renee and I had talked them to death, on our own and with a counselor. But talking to Sylvia felt nice—I didn’t want her to leave. I surprised myself again by touching her shoulder. “What were you going to ask?”

She stared into her glass as she twirled the stem. “I was just going to ask if you felt like your friends abandoned you after your wife left. If you felt like people didn’t care about what you were going through and you had nobody to talk to.”

“Oh.” I thought for a second. “Not really, I guess. But . . . I’m more of a private person. I didn’t really want to talk about it. It was done, and there was nothing anyone could say to change that.”

“I know, but . . .” She looked up at me, her expression serious. “Didn’t you ever feel so lonely you wanted to scream?”

I felt a sudden compulsion to put my arms around her, and had to force myself not to. “That’s when I go punch things. You should try it sometime.”

She tipped up her wine again, finishing it. I finished mine too and reached for her glass. “Here, I’ll take that.”

She followed me to the sink at the back of the cellar. “I’ve actually never thrown a punch at anything in my entire life.”

“What?” I pretended to be shocked as I washed our glasses. “You’ve never been in a bar fight?”

She laughed, sticking her hands in her coat pockets. “Never.”

“No sparring with your sisters when you were young? My brothers and I beat the hell out of each other.”

“Nope. I think Meg and Chloe went at it a few times, and April and I definitely got into screaming matches over who stole whose lip gloss or hairbrush or jean jacket, but nothing physical.”

“Not even one playground brawl to brag about?” I teased, setting the glasses on the rack to dry and wiping my hands on the bottom of my shirt. That’s when I noticed the hole—fucking hell, did I have to be wearing a shirt with a hole in it the one time Sylvia Sawyer came in here to talk to me? I felt like I should apologize or something—she was always so well-dressed and perfectly put together. And there was no way she hadn’t noticed it—it was right fucking there on my chest. I put a hand over it, but she wasn’t looking at me.

“You know, there was this bully who shoved me off the swings once in third grade, but I didn’t fight back,” she said distractedly.

“Why not?”

“I was scared. She was bigger than me.”

“That’s why you need to learn to throw a punch,” I told her. “You should come to the gym sometime. There’s a great coach there who works with beginners, and she has a lot of female clients. I think there’s also a self-defense class too.”

“Really?” She perked up a little. “That might be good. I’ll be living alone here and everything, and even though this town isn’t very dangerous, you never know.”

“Exactly.”

“And I think it would be great to feel . . . stronger. More confident. To know that I can take care of myself no matter what. Chances are, I’m never going to have to throw that punch, but if I did . . .”

“You’d know what to do.”

“I’d know what to do.” She smiled at me, a gleam in her eye. “You know, I already saw the hole in your shirt.”

“Can’t we pretend you didn’t?”

Laughing, she tugged my hand off my chest. “I saw it, and it’s fine, Henry. You don’t have to feel bad for dressing comfortably at work. I crashed your space.”

“I’m glad you did.”

Our eyes locked, and a moment passed during which I wondered what life might have been like if our timing had been different. Would I have kissed her on a night like tonight? Would we have been good together? Would we be home in bed by now, wrapped up warm and close beneath the covers?

The thought made the crotch of my pants feel tight.

It also made me feel like a jerk.

Sure, she was lonely, just like I was. But she was also really fucking vulnerable, and she was in here with me—alone, at night—because she trusted me to keep my hands to myself. I was a family friend and an employee. Only a total asshole would take advantage of her in this situation. Not to mention that it would jeopardize my job, my relationship with her family, and my professional reputation.

I took my hand from hers. “It’s getting late. Let me walk you back.”

She pulled her mittens from her pockets and put them on. “You don’t have to walk me back. It’s late, and I’m sure you’re anxious to get home.”

“Let me rephrase that,” I said firmly. “I’m going to walk you back now.”

She narrowed her eyes at me as she tugged her hat on, but she smiled too. “Bully.”

“So fight me.”

She sort of slapped at my chest with her mittened hands, and I grinned as I backed toward the stairs. “That’s it? You really do need that class.”

A few minutes later, we were walking along the path toward the house, snow falling softly around us.

“Are you coming for dinner tomorrow night?” she asked.

“I don’t think so.”