Love on the Lake (Lakeside #2)(30)

He mirrors the movement. “Because you scared the shit out of me!”

“Why are you so agitated?”

“Because I don’t need complications in my life, and you’re becoming one!”

I feel like a sad balloon that’s been pricked with a pin.

Your family situation is too complicated.

I can’t be with someone who attracts this much negative attention.

You’re dragging me down with you.

All the excuses Troy gave me as to why he was breaking it off with me and why he’d started sleeping with my best friend. She had been the one to comfort him, to agree that he was right: I was too much of a complication for his family. They didn’t need my drama.

I step aside. “That’s enough. I don’t need to hear any more. You can go.”

“Shit. Teagan—”

“Leave. Please.” I lift a hand but keep my eyes on the floor. On his scuffed work boots. On my bare toes. I need a pedicure.

He sighs but does as I ask, pulling the door closed behind him with a quiet click.

I inhale to the count of four and exhale to the count of eight. “Way to go, Teag. Good job embarrassing yourself.”

My fingers and toes start to go numb. I head for the bathroom and open the medicine cabinet, scanning until I find my antianxiety medicine. I take a few deep breaths, warring with myself before I finally give in. I’m on the verge of losing it, and I would prefer for that not to happen.

Not when Van and Dillion will be home from work soon, probably asking all kinds of questions. Ones I’m going to have to dodge or lie about.

Whatever Dillion thought was going on with Aaron was very wrong, because he definitely doesn’t want anything to do with me.





CHAPTER 9


NICE WORK, DONKEY

Aaron

I stand outside her door for five minutes. Because I’m a donkey. A giant, stupid donkey.

So fucking stupid.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

“You’re twenty-seven years old, dipshit. How hard is it to tell a woman you actually like her?” Pretty fucking hard, I would guess, considering I insulted the hell out of her. Like this is some high school–level crush.

And after she basically bared her soul to me.

Okay. She didn’t bare her soul, but she told me some personal stuff.

And I shat all over that sharing by being a dick.

Because she called me out. And she was right.

I have a reputation in town for getting into bed with the women on the other side of the lake. For a while I got nice and familiar with those entitled women and the sounds of their orgasms. Past tense. At least since last summer, when shit hit the fan. And the cost outweighed the benefit, which was no-strings sex with women who seemed to think I was a shiny toy they could play with, consequence-free.

When that changed, I stopped providing orgasms to the sad, lonely women in their huge, empty lake houses.

But that kind of thing follows a person around for a long time, like the stench of garbage that’s been baking in the sun too long; it burns itself into people’s memories until that’s all they can see or remember.

And I’ve done a terrible job of trying to dispel those rumors.

I haven’t done anything to dispel them.

I’ve been happy to let them fester like wounds. It allows me to avoid relationships with substance. And the local women who I’ve known my entire life have zero interest in becoming notches on my bedpost. So it served its purpose. Until now.

There’s something about Teagan. Under the metallic-pink ridiculousness and that bright, sunshine smile and her bubbly personality is a layered and complex human being. One I sincerely want to get to know better. Because I feel like behind all that sunshine is some darkness. The kind of murky shadows that might match mine.

It’s been years since I’ve felt any kind of real draw to a woman, and now that I do, I can’t seem to manage it without being a giant donkey.

I bang my head against the door and grip the knob. Then twist. Just to see if she locked it behind me.

She didn’t.

I push it open and call her name, but no one answers.

Maybe she went out the other door.

I should leave. I can come back tomorrow and apologize. But instead of doing that, I take another step inside and close the door behind me.

The loft is one big open space, so the only places she can hide are the bathroom or the closet. The sound of running water tells me which location she’s in. I still haven’t installed the doorknobs yet, so there’s a three-inch hole where the knob should be, a sliver of pale-green fabric belonging to Teagan’s shorts visible through the gap.

Her fingers, with perfectly filed nails, appear in that hole, and a moment later the door opens. She startles. “What are you still doing here?”

“I don’t think you’re a wounded bird. That’s not what I wanted to tell you. At first that’s what I thought. You reminded me of the women across the lake.” I cringe at the look of disbelief on her face and rush on to explain. “You’re too perfect, too put together, and then you almost started crying, and I decided you must be like them, and I’d sworn off getting involved with anyone like that again. Because you’re right, I did mow a lot of lawns on the other side of the lake for a couple of years—literally and figuratively. I figured why not, right? They were using me because . . .” I motion to my abs. I don’t even remember where I left my damn shirt. “And I was using them because I didn’t want to get involved with anyone who wanted more from me than orgasms.”