Ginger's Heart (A Modern Fairytale, #3)(102)

Almost in slow motion, her stunning face turned, and as her eyes met his over her bottle, he raised his own quickly. The cold glass connected with the warm flesh of his lips, and the beer sluiced down his throat as he watched her lower hers and say, “Yes. Happy Thanksgivin’, Klaus.”

Klaus looked back and forth between his son and Ginger. “You know? I need to water the horses and check on . . . things. I be right back?”

Before they could respond, Cain’s father slipped out the door, leaving them alone.

“Do you like football?” Cain asked her, squelching a wince, feeling—for the first time in more years than he could remember—young and self-conscious around a woman.

“Um, honestly? It’s not my favorite.”

He gestured to the chairs. “You came all the way down here. Stay a few minutes. You have to finish your beer.”

She looked wary for a moment, then grinned at him. “Sure. Just for a few minutes.”

They sat down side by side, but Cain was so aware of her—of her slight citrus scent, her plum-colored dress, her pretty shoes—he couldn’t help but notice her transformation. Besides, the last time he’d seen her, she was spitting mad at him, and today she seemed much more gentle, like her old self, like the girl he’d once loved so desperately.

“You look nice, Gin,” he said, forcing his glance away from her. He stared at the TV and took another sip of beer.

“Thanks,” she said. “I, well, if you want the truth, an old friend of mine told me to stop feelin’ sorry for myself.”

“Sounds like a total bastard. I’ll beat him up for you.”

She burst into a small laugh, shaking her head at him.

“I’m sorry, princess,” he said, wincing to recall the harshness of his speech.

Her smile faded, but her voice remained gentle. “I hated your words, but I needed to hear them.”

He nodded, looking away from the aching sweetness of her face, reminding himself that he was an emissary on Woodman’s behalf. Looking after her was fulfilling a promise to his cousin. Nothing less, but nothing . . . more.

“So, uh,” he said, “I tried out your Presbyterian church, and I think it’s a real nice service.”

“Wait, um, did you just say you went to church? And enjoyed it?”

“I’m not utterly godless, Gin.”

“That’s up for debate,” she shot back.

“Damn,” he said, chuckling softly as he took another sip of beer.

“And nice compared to what? The Church of Motorcycles, Sluts, Cussin’, and Beer?”

“Fuckin’ sassy,” he whispered, looking at her out of the corner of his eyes and enjoying her immensely.

She was right. He didn’t especially like going to church, but in the two weeks he’d been going to hers, she hadn’t show up, which bothered him. It had been an important part of her life when Woodman was alive, and he was anxious that she start going again. She needed the community—she needed to feel less alone. “They’re doin’ a, uh, a carolin’ thing at your gran’s place.”

“A carolin’ thing?”

He nodded. “Friday night next. I’ll pick you up at six and we can go together.”

And suddenly all that gentleness and sass jumped ship. She sat back in her chair, her face pinched. “I don’t think so. I’m not . . .”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Cain, “is there a very important Lifetime movie that requires your attention?”

She whipped her face to the side, her eyes narrowing in annoyance. “No, I just don’t—”

“Great. You’re free. I’ll pick you up at seven, and if you’re not dressed—”

“I know. I know. You’ll haul my ass out of bed and throw me in your dad’s truck.”

He couldn’t help grinning at her. “You’re a fast learner.”

Her nose twitched. “Fine. I’ll go. But I don’t promise to have a good time.”

“I think we’ve already established that your pleasure is irrelevant.”

“Sweet talker.” She rolled her eyes at him before turning back to the TV. “This how you got all the girls?”

“Nope,” he said, placing his empty bottle on the table between them. “My personality sucks. It was my dimples. And my ass.”

“Ha!” she chortled. “So full of yourself.”

He raised his eyebrows and grinned. “Can’t change a wolf’s howl.”

“Or an ass’s hee-haw,” she returned, taking a big gulp of her own beer before placing it next to his.

Damn, but she was quick. And funny. And gorgeous. But around her eyes, he still saw deep, deep lines of sadness. Church once a week wasn’t going to be enough. She needed somewhere to go, more to do. She needed to get the f*ck out of her goddamned cottage.

“What you been doin’ with yourself?” he asked.

“Visitin’ Gran.” She took a deep breath and sighed. “And I’ve gone ridin’ a couple times.”

“When are you goin’ back to work?”

She shrugged, avoiding his eyes, though they were trained on her. “I don’t know.”

“You loved nursin’. I remember you tellin’ me.”