Crazy Girl(38)

Looking down at my hands, I took a slow breath. He was good at tearing down a person and shredding their argument. I’d give him that. I didn’t know what to say. A part of me didn’t feel I was wrong. I knew overanalyzing and worrying to death about everything was a problem for me. I knew I had been burned and my experiences had, in fact, made me cynical. But I didn’t like them pointed out. Wren had a point, too. My self-esteem was pretty much at rock bottom. Was I projecting my image of myself on Wren? There was nothing worse than being a vulnerable, insecure mess, and then being called out on it. Being weak wasn’t fun or sexy. I started to think, well, shit, why does he want me here?

Turning my head, still unable to look at him, I murmured, “I’m sorry.” And I was. It was another moment where I wanted to run, hide from him. I felt exposed, like cracked skin that had been in the sun too long. It burned. I was broken.

Taking my chin, he tilted my face up and forced me to meet his gaze. “Nothing has to happen here tonight. The guest room is made up for you. I didn’t bring you here to impress you and trick you into bed. I asked you here, honestly, because I wanted to see you, and I’m busy because my work schedule is nuts, and I thought I could somehow make it work where I got to spend time with you.” Oh…

A sad guilt washed over me as I stared into his eyes realizing I believed him. I was ruining this.

Pulling my gaze away, I shook my head, feeling silly. “Just be real with me. Okay?”

“Okay,” he agreed. “It’s a deal.”

Reaching his hand out as if he wanted to shake mine, he said, “Friends again?”

If I didn’t feel so shitty, I’d laugh. Placing my hand in his, we shook. “Friends.”

Gripping my hand, he quirked one brow before he asked, “Is this really how you shake hands with people?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“Weak,” he barked.

I noted our joined hands, the firmness in my grip versus his. “Well, I’m not a dude. My handshake shouldn’t be as strong as yours.”

“I agree. But it should be stronger than this,” he said as he held my hand and whipped my arm up and down like a limp spaghetti noodle, pointing out how weak my hold actually was.

“What should I do? Try and rub your knuckles together?” I jested.

“It depends on what you’re trying to say.” He released my hand and went on. “I can tell you right now, a woman trying to out strengthen a man in a handshake will not do her any favors. Men hate that shit. But your shake shouldn’t be dainty either.”

“So somewhere between rubbing knuckles and kiss my ring finger?” I laughed.

“Shake mine again,” he ordered softly. I did, this time making sure to add more strength in my hold. “More,” he said. I squeezed harder. “Come on,” he groaned, “you can do better than that.”

Again, I squeezed harder. “There she is,” he chuckled. I noticed his forefinger was out, pressed against my wrist.

“What’s the deal with your finger?”

“That’s how a man establishes dominance.”

Glancing up at him, I swallowed, committing it to memory. That was going in a book somewhere someday. Sticking my finger out so it rested on his wrist, I said, “What if I like to be in charge?”

He quickly eradicated that idea when he jerked me to him, slamming my body against his. “I think you could be…it’s just going to take some time.”

All cylinders fired in my head, winding and cranking, warming up to dissect the living hell out of that last statement. But before I could get the conveyor belt of overthinking going, he kissed me. Before I knew it, he was sitting on the couch and I was straddling him, kissing him like my life depended on it. I was nothing more than the thread of a yo-yo. And he was a yo-yo master. When I unraveled, he brought me back, wrapping me neatly around my spool. Why was I this way? I couldn’t understand it. And in that moment, I didn’t want to. I wanted to forget the walking, open wound I had become; overly sensitive and unhealed, scathed by even the thought of a touch. I didn’t want to be me.

The magic of the town, the highs and lows of my thoughts, his charm, my fears, and his words had joined together and created some kind of force that pressed upon me, urging me to do something…anything. To live. To breathe. To want. To feel. So…I did. Instead of running from what I wanted, I met it head-on.





Coffee





As I filled the coffee pot with water in the employee lounge at work, my mind wandered to thoughts of Hannah from the night before. She’d tossed and turned all night. I was a heavy sleeper, not usually awakened by someone moving beside me, but with her, it was as if I was conscious of her every move even while I was unconscious.

How we ended up in my bed had been a bit of a blur. It happened so fast and unexpectedly. At least it felt like it did. It was as if one moment we were on my couch and the next, we were naked in my bedroom.

“Take me to bed,” she’d rasped against my lips as she straddled me, her hips grinding against me in a tortuous rhythm. My head spun a bit. Hadn’t she just freaked out because she’d thought I was only trying to get her into bed? Now she was asking me to take her there? The hell?

“Hannah—”

“I know,” she interrupted me. She knew I was about to question this sudden shift in her mood. Sensuality pooled in her ash-brown eyes, drawing me in, as she laced her fingers in my hair. “But I…I want this,” she assured me. “I know I want this. And I won’t question it. I promise.”