Erasing Faith(85)

I pulled them out, happy to have a project that would occupy my time, if not my thoughts. Anything was better than playing a gazillion rounds of solitaire.

I changed into yoga pants and an oversized, off-the-shoulder t-shirt, grabbed my iPod and earbuds from my purse, and got to work.

The first song that came on when I set my music to shuffle was Madilyn Bailey’s acoustic cover of Titanium, which felt almost unbearably suited to my life at the moment, so I let it play.

I sang — tone deaf, pitchy, and horribly off-key — as I swiped spider webs from ceiling rafters and brushed leaves and debris from forgotten corners. Screeching out the high notes like a cat caught in a rainstorm, I wiped down dirty tabletops and shook clouds of dust from the carpet. With each song change, I felt a little of my sadness slip away and began to breathe again.

By the time I reached the end of my playlist, the cabin looked like an entirely different place. The lemony scent of the cleaner suffused the once-musty space, the soot-coated floors shined like a new penny, and life had been fluffed into the flattened down comforter.

The cottage looked clean, bright, and, dare I say it, almost… beautiful. In a horribly rustic, uncivilized sort of way, of course.

I was finishing up my final task — bounding from window to window with a wet rag, wiping the foggy glass panes clean — when Taylor Swift’s I Knew You Were Trouble started blaring in my ears. Freezing in place, for a few seconds I listened to the pounding beat, my head bobbing along to the lyrics. And, suddenly, I couldn’t help myself — I grabbed the broom from the corner, lifted it like a guitar, and started air-jamming like a lunatic. Spinning in circles, belting the high notes, and wailing about the good girl who’d fallen for the bad boy against her better judgment, I felt a smile stretch my lips for the first time in days.

I spun.

I sang.

I whirled.

I wailed.

It was the most fun I’d had in weeks. Years, if I was honest with myself.

Or, at least it was… until I executed a final ridiculous turn, broom-guitar whipping through the air with me, and came face to face with Wes, who was leaning in the open doorway, watching me with a look of utter amusement.

Shit.

***

I stumbled to a stop, panting as I tried to catch my breath. My cheeks flamed with embarrassment but I forced my face into an aloof expression, as though it didn’t bother me in the slightest that I’d just been caught twirling around the cottage like Maria in the Sound of Freaking Music.

“What are you staring at?” I snapped, brushing a tendril of sweat-dampened hair off my forehead.

He mouthed something, but I couldn’t hear him over the music.

“What?”

I tried not to shy away when he walked up to me, reached out a hand, and plucked one headphone from my ear.

“You’re yelling,” he whispered, a half-smile twisting his lips.

My cheeks flushed even redder when I realized I’d been screaming at an unintentionally loud volume.

“Oh,” I murmured, removing the other earbud and silencing my iPod. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” I could hear the grin in his voice, but I didn’t dare look up at him. “I could hear you shrieking Taylor Swift from a half-mile out.”

My gaze flew up to his and I opened my mouth to release a snarky retort. I held my tongue when I saw his eyes were full of teasing.

“Too bad you missed the earlier portion of the program,” I joked, my snappy comeback forgotten. “My caterwauling Carrie Underwood impression was really impressive.”

“Was that an actual joke that just came out of your mouth?” he asked, his eyes widening in a parody of shock.

“Don’t push it,” I muttered, glaring at him once more.

The skin around his eyes wrinkled in mirth. He stared at me for a full minute without saying anything, his eyes warm on my face, and I fought the urge to move away from him. After a small eternity, his gaze finally shifted to take in the cottage more thoroughly.

“You cleaned.”

“It was dusty.”

He glanced back at me. “I can see that.”

Lifting a hand to my forehead, he rubbed at the grime-streaked skin there.

My eyebrows went up involuntarily.

“Dirt,” he said softly, his thumb still brushing my face. The feeling of his touch was so light — so right — I felt the breath catch in my throat. My heart began to pound a mad tattoo inside my chest, and I pulled back from him so fast, his hand lingered in the air even after I’d spun away.

Steadying my shoulders, I took a deep breath and decided to ignore him. I busied myself with putting away my cleaning supplies, trying to believe that I was still immune to him. Telling myself over and over that the simple touch of his hand hadn’t been enough to set my heart beating double time or steal the breath from my lungs.

I’d rather lie than admit the truth — that the brush of his thumb, the warmth in his gaze, the silk of his tone could still make me weak in the knees, even after three years of hating him.

He’s the devil, I reminded myself. Did you already forget that?

I was thankful when, after a moment, the electric, tight-coiled tension in the air dissipated and I could breathe again. I listened to his steps as he made his way over to the tiny wooden table by the kitchenette.

“I got coffee,” he said, setting down a clear plastic grocery bag I hadn’t even noticed he was carrying. “Canned food, lantern fluid. Some other supplies that will last a few days. You must be hungry.”