Ginger's Heart (A Modern Fairytale, #3)(63)

Her words, said passionately with the hint of a sob, reverberated in his head. Even if you want to control people, you can’t. We can barely control ourselves. And suddenly Woodman had an epiphany that took his breath away.

I can’t control Ginger.

I can’t control Cain.

He’d always been pretty good about loving Ginger quietly and giving her the time and space to decide what she wanted, but something about his accident, about the loss of control he felt in the wake of his injury, had made him push her for answers from the moment he’d arrived home. And even though she’d stopped by faithfully and they’d had some good talks, he’d strained their relationship because he was putting expectations on her that she’d never promised to meet. And suddenly he realized with startling and blinding clarity:

It does no good to stake a claim on someone’s heart. Unless they give it to you, it isn’t yours to take. All you can do is share your heart and hope she wants it. All you can do is offer it and hope she takes it. All you can do is love her and hope to God she finds a way to love you back.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“For what?” she asked.

“For tryin’ to force you to love me.”

“Oh, Woodman,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “I do love you.”

“I know you do. Like a best friend. Like a brother.”

She shrugged helplessly. “And at times . . .”

He waited for her to continue.

“There have been times,” she said softly, “when I thought I felt somethin’ more.”

With his good foot, he pushed off and the swing rocked gently as he processed her words; those times—those precious moments—when she’d felt possible for him, he’d felt possible for her too. It gave him hope. It restored his patience.

“I love you,” he said gently, staring straight ahead at an old oak tree that was blocking the setting sun. It created a sunburst of orange-gold that made the tree look like it was on fire. “I’ve been in love with you for as long as I can remember.”

“Woodman,” she sobbed.

He didn’t look at her. He stared at the tree as the orange-gold sun set the grass on fire and watched as the old oak was slowly bathed in a calming lavender.

“If you told me ‘no,’ Gin, if you told me ‘never,’ I’d leave you be. You know that, don’t you? It would damn near kill me, but I’d . . . I promise you, I’d walk away. But until you say those words, Ginger, I will keep hopin’ and keep waitin’ for you.”

She took a deep, sobbing breath beside him, and he knew if he looked at her, he’d see tears spilling over the rims of her eyes, but he didn’t look. He watched the grass turn lavender, then purple. He focused on the dying light.

“Gin,” he whispered, hating the question but needing the answer, “are you in love with Cain?”

Peripherally, he saw her shake her head back and forth, letting her neck fall forward until her chin rested on her chest and her shoulders shook the swing with silent sobs. And then he knew for sure. It had happened. Somehow in the space of just a few days she’d fallen for Cain again.

“Gin,” he said gently, putting his finger under her chin and tilting her face up to look at him. Her blonde hair shone in the porch light over their heads as the rest of the world darkened into purple dusk little by little. “Cain is my cousin and I love him, but I just . . . I just don’t think he’s right for you.”

“Why?” she demanded, her voice breaking on the simple, pleading word, as though she truly wanted an answer, as though she’d already posed the question to herself and come up with nothing.

Because he’s cock deep in Mary-Louise Walker right now while you’re weeping over him. The words sat perched on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn’t bring himself to say them—he couldn’t bear to hurt her like that, and frankly he didn’t want to villainize Cain like that, not even if meant winning Ginger.

“I see you with me, not him,” he said simply. “Darlin’, I’d be so good to you. Don’t you know that?”

She nodded, tears streaming down her lovely face, limp with sadness.

Reaching down, he took her hand gently, lifting it, bringing it to his chest and placing it directly over his heart.

“You can have this heart to break,” he said softly, devoutly, surrendering everything to her—his dignity, his control, his very soul—“if there’s even the smallest chance you might want it someday. Because here is what I know: even if you can’t ever give me yours, mine already belongs to you.”

Tears coursed down her cheeks and fell to her chin, dripping onto her lap as she stared at her hand, flattened against his shirt. When she raised her eyes, she tried to smile at him, but more tears spilled from her eyes instead. “God damn it, Josiah. Why’re you s-so good to me?”

“Why’s the sky blue, Ginger?” he asked, raising her hand to his lips and kissing the translucent skin on the underside of her wrist before entwining his fingers through hers. “Because it don’t know no other way to be.”

“I’m so tired,” she said, letting her head fall to his shoulder. She took a deep, ragged breath that shook her whole body, and he put his arm around her, pulling her into his side and using his good foot to push off the ground again and set them in a gentle motion. Back and forth. Back and forth. Woodman sighed and let his head lean over to rest on top of hers.