Ginger's Heart (A Modern Fairytale, #3)(46)
“Remind me to never get on your bad side, darlin’.” Woodman chuckled softly. “Listen, ole Cain’s never goin’ to be a perfect Southern gentleman, but he’s changed, Gin. I swear it.”
I’ve changed. My troublemakin’ days are behind me, darlin’.
“Ha!” she snorted.
But she couldn’t help but wonder when he’d changed and how he’d changed, and if he deserved a second chance that she didn’t feel like giving.
“I’m tellin’ you, Cain’s a better man than he ever was. Ain’t drinkin’ half so much.”
“But whorin’ double,” she blurted out, then clapped her hand over her mouth.
Woodman’s eyes widened to saucers, twinkling and merry. “You always had a way with words, Miss Ginger!” He cackled with mirth, and she knew they were both thinking of the time she’d called Mary-Louise Walker, Big Tits Walker.
Her shoulders shook as she laughed with him, relieved that their friendship appeared to be restored for now.
“I can’t speak for his . . .” Woodman cleared his throat, still choking back laughter, “extracurricular activities, but I can tell you this: he’s cleaned up his act. Never thought I’d say this, but when he leaves in two and a half weeks, I sure will miss him.”
Leaves in two and a half weeks. Leaves. The words swam around in her head, making her dizzy, making her heart ache, making her long for peace with this supposedly new and improved version of Cain before he left again.
She picked up her coffee and took a long sip, wishing she could just shrug off her feelings and leave Cain in her wake once and for all, but Cain was in her blood, and she could already feel her clenched heart opening like a flower to the sun, hopeful, longing, wondering who Cain was now, and desperately wanting to know.
She caught Woodman staring at her thoughtfully and forced a cheerful grin. “Enough about Cain. Tell me more about your plans to work at the firehouse.”
***
Three days later, she was watering the geraniums on Gran’s front porch when Cain ambled up to the cottage, a distant look in his eyes and Klaus’s toolbox hanging by his side. And, oh Lord, how her heart hammered. He was tall and muscular, his chest broad, his arms thick and corded, veins winding around the sinew. His jeans sat on his hips, slung low, and he walked with an unhurried grace, as though the world waited for Cain, never the other way around. He was comfortable and confident, at ease in his skin with a force field of masculine energy around him that fairly leveled her. And yet his face, lost in thought, had a sort of shocking ethereal beauty too—pale skin over cut angles and icy eyes under long, curled, jet-black lashes. He was a dark angel, a blue-eyed devil, the very embodiment of her fiercest desires and the apathetic object of her unrequited love. And for just a moment, she hated him. She hated his beauty and grace and potency. She hated it because she wanted it, longed for it, dreamed of it . . . and he had denied her of its having.
She straightened her spine and put her hands on her hips.
“What are you doin’ here?” she snapped.
“Why are you livin’ here?” asked Cain, casting his glance at the manor house before looking back at her. “Castle not to your likin’, princess?”
She rolled her eyes, gesturing to his toolbox with a flick of her chin. “Klaus sent you to fix my sink?”
“Always wanted to get a look at your plumbin’, Gin.”
It was such an unexpected and teasing remark, her lips parted, and she felt an imminent smile. Unwilling to provide him such approval, she turned around and huffed, heading back into the cottage to compose herself.
Don’t fall for his wiles. Be stronger, Gin. Whether he’s changed or not, doesn’t matter, doesn’t change how he left things between you. Be smart and keep your distance.
A rumble of light laughter filled the little kitchen as he followed her inside, and her longing to be closer to its source made her head to the farthest edge of the room and face him, crossing her arms over her chest as though annoyed. She gestured to her sink with an open palm. “It’s clogged.”
But Cain wasn’t looking at the sink. He was looking at Ginger. Setting his toolbox down on the floor, he did nothing, in fact, but look at Ginger. Her breath caught as his eyes caressed her face, trailing from her hair to her eyes, sliding down her cheeks to her lips in leisurely perusal. Her pulse raced, throbbing in her throat, as he dropped his intense gaze to her breasts, holding there for an interminable moment before lowering his gaze to her hips and legs. She could hear the subtle increase in his breathing—the way it quickened, the way it grew more ragged as time stopped and Cain studied her.
As his eyes skated back up her body, they were hungry, and she was acutely aware of his size, so much bigger and stronger than she, in the small room they shared. But she wasn’t frightened or intimidated—this was Cain, after all, whom she’d known forever, and she had a funny sense that he was trying to catch up, trying to figure her out the same way she was trying to get her bearings with him. He was logging the changes in her, and the shift in his breathing told her he liked what he saw, which made it the most erotic sixty seconds of Ginger’s heretofore unerotic life. Her nipples tightened, her veins pulsed, and her private places flooded with a sudden rush of liquid heat.
Cain. Oh God, Cain, how do you do this to me with just a look?