Ginger's Heart (A Modern Fairytale, #3)(38)

Princess.

Her heart, brimming with too much emotion to bear, thundered at the sound of his voice saying the beloved old nickname. She tried not to smile, working hard to scowl instead. Cutesy nicknames would only make her fall again, and falling for a pig like Cain was a recipe for more heartbreak. She’d already had her fill, thank you very much.

“Ginger’s good.”

“Yes, she is,” he drawled, smirking at her.

Out of nowhere, fury erupted within her.

Unbelievable.

You stood me up for a dance three years ago without so much as an apology, and now you have the gall to flirt with me? She scoffed, looking down at the emergency brake, tempted to release it and speed away.

“Some things never change.”

“How d’you mean?”

Looking up, she nailed him with a look that conveyed all the hurt still wallowing around in her heart. “Still the shallow flirt, huh?”

Wincing, he lifted his hands from her windowsill and stepped away from the car, having the audacity to look hurt. He swiped at his lower lip—which only served to make her stare at it and remind her of how it felt moving on hers, damn him!—with his thumb before putting his hands on his hips.

“Still mad, huh?”

Her lungs tightened, and the tears burning her eyes doubled, but damn if she’d let him see how much his flippant comment hurt. It was the first he’d ever acknowledged standing her up, and apparently there was no apology forthcoming.

Yes! she wanted to cry. Yes, I’m still mad. Yes, I’m still hurt. Yes, you broke my heart. And yes, you made me insecure about the way I kissed. And yes, if Woodman hadn’t taken me to the goddamned dance . . . Woodman . . . Woodman.

“Just saw Woodman,” she blurted out, looking up at Cain and blinking back the tears. Woodman was mad at her, and Cain was still a jackass, and all she wanted was to zoom away from him, race into Gran’s old cottage and hurl herself onto her bed for a nice, long cry. But she had too much dignity to run away, so she lifted her chin and opted for polite conversation instead. “Thanks for bringin’ him home.”

Cain shrugged, his teasing expression sobering. “I’d do anythin’ for him.”

“Me too,” she said, the words coming easily.

Their eyes met, and for a moment—just for a split second—she thought she saw more than smirky flippancy there. She saw regret and wonder and longing and so many other soft and wonderful things, she held her breath. His hand moved from his hip, toward her face, and, holding his eyes, she tracked his fingers in her peripheral vision, leaning just slightly toward him so he could touch her face. Her whole body trembled as her eyes fluttered closed, and she remembered how it felt for him to palm her cheek, to kiss her, to—

The squeaking noise of the side-view mirror being adjusted made her eyes whip open in time to see him rake his fingers through his hair and grin at his reflection.

“How do I look?” he asked, winking at her.

I’m officially the most pathetic person on the earth, and I hate myself.

She released her breath in a quiet hiss of disgust.

“Like you’re ready to raise Cain,” she snapped, relieved when anger reared its head again, shoving hurt, and despicable hope, aside. It wasn’t hard to look pissed at him. She felt pissed enough at herself to make it genuine.

He chuckled. “I’ve changed. My troublemakin’ days are behind me, darlin’. I protect and serve now.”

“I’d sooner trust a fox with a chicken.”

“Yup. Still mad as a wet hen,” he said smoothly, grinning at her.

It was a clever retort, and if she wasn’t so hurt and turned-on and angry and confused, she might have giggled and given him credit for it. Instead she took a deep breath and turned away from him. No doubt he was on the way to the distillery to chase some tail, and she had a date with her bed.

But after two such disastrous reunions with two people who’d meant so much to her once upon a time, she could barely keep her tears at bay.

“Welcome home, Cain,” she whispered. Then, before she could embarrass herself, she raised the window and pulled her car forward without looking back.

“You are an idiot,” she mumbled, parking beside Gran’s vintage Ford pickup and slamming her door shut before stomping into the cottage that still smelled comfortingly of Gran.

She was even more of an idiot if she thought she could ignore Cain while he was home. They’d spoken for all of two minutes, but it had proved several devastating truths that Ginger wasn’t anxious to acknowledge:

One, she had never gotten over Cain.

And two, given the chance, he could break her heart into a million jagged splinters all over again.

Walking wearily upstairs to bed, she wiped the wetness from her cheeks and whispered into the darkness, “Be strong, Virginia Laire McHuid. Don’t you dare give him that chance.”





Chapter 9


Woodman



He hadn’t seen the accident coming. That was the thing that haunted Woodman the most. One minute he was standing on the flight deck guiding a jet into position. The next, his ankle was being crushed from behind by a forklift. In his nightmares, he could feel the metal ripping his skin and splintering his bone, and he was trapped, and utterly f*cking helpless to do anything to save himself.