Naked Love(48)

I rest my cheek on the top of her head. “I’m not sure I’ve ever seen anything as beautiful as you are in this very moment.”

And oh so slowly … she looks up at me.





CHAPTER FOURTEEN




Avery


I let my hand touch his face, let my fingertips ghost along his jaw. Jake doesn’t move. When a man says something like that, it’s hard to not want to give him everything. Tears fill my eyes, because I want to give him something I’ve never really given to a man.

The truth.

“My mom died when I was eight. I look just like she did.” A bittersweet smile pulls at my lips as my hand slides down to rest on Jake’s chest. I lay my head next to my hand and stare at the orange and red embers. “She was too pretty to be a preacher’s wife. Beautiful curves hidden behind conservative clothes. My dad used to tell me physical beauty should be a gift given to your husband on your wedding night. A man should fall in love with your heart.

“But sometimes when my dad traveled on mission trips and Sydney would spend the night at a friend’s house, my mom dug black satin and silk slips from her dresser drawer and we’d wear them like sexy dresses. She curled our hair and pinned it up with little ringlets hanging down. She applied her makeup, extra heavy, and put some blue eyeshadow, pink blush, and red lipstick on me. Then we slipped on high heels from her closet, which weren’t very high, and we tied scarves around our necks and danced in her bedroom to Donna Summer’s ‘Hot Stuff,’ using hairbrushes as microphones.”

Jake’s chest vibrates with a soft chuckle.

“I had no idea what the lyrics meant. And I didn’t feel sexy, because I didn’t know what that meant either. All I knew was my mom looked really pretty, and she was deliriously happy. I don’t know … we probably did this a dozen or so times before she died. But they are some of my most cherished memories. When you feel pretty, you smile bigger, and it’s fun to feel pretty.”

I sigh. “She used to braid my hair. I love it when people braid my hair. But I dated a man who thought long hair wasn’t sophisticated. So I cut it, about this length. I didn’t cry that time, but I wanted to. I no longer saw my mom’s reflection when I looked in the mirror.” Grunting a painful laugh, I shake my head. “The asshole guy told me, after it was too late, that I didn’t have the face for short hair. He said it accentuated my big ears and my big eyes. Then he left me two days later for someone younger with smaller eyes and ears.”

Jake presses his lips to the top of my head again, it brings more emotions to my eyes. It makes my heart hurt for so many reasons. It’s tender, not sexual. It’s such a foreign feeling to me.

“Is that why you got fake hair?”

I laugh. “Extensions.”

“Same thing.”

“No.” I giggle some more. “The extensions were real hair. Just not my hair.”

“And that’s not a little creepy to you? Wearing someone else’s hair?”

“I have leather and fur clothing. I’m sure that offends you, but I clearly don’t have issues with any of it.”

“The length of your hair doesn’t define you.”

“Neither does the size of your muscles or the ink on your skin … yet you have both. Did you know there have been comprehensive studies on narcissism, and the results show men are far more narcissistic than women? The stereotypical link between vanity and femininity is just that … a stereotype. Look, he’s strong, powerful, and in shape. He’s stylish and sexy. She, on the other hand, is self-absorbed, vain, materialistic, and fake.”

“Hmm …”

I wait for him to give me more than a contemplative hum. Nope. That’s it.

“Long day. I’m tired.” He eases me out of his lap.

I straighten my hoodie and reach for my hair to smooth it, stopping just shy of actually touching the short ends. Old habits. Jake doesn’t miss it. He mirrors my weak smile.

“Do your thing.” He nods toward the tent. “I’ll put out the fire and lock up the truck.”

“Okay,” I say with crippled confidence—fully clothed yet completely naked.

*

The next morning I wake up first after a restless night of sleep. I can’t help it that I like beds, air-conditioning, and guys who are transparent. Seriously, I’m traveling with a walking unsolved mystery. Does he hate me? Love me? Lust me? Want to kill me? Want to fuck me? I have absolutely no clue. He had me in tears yesterday for so many reasons.

I’m emotionally ripped into a million pieces at this point. If I had a mirror, I’m certain I wouldn’t recognize the reflection in it.

Needing to burn off some energy, I slip into some exercise clothes that are in desperate need of laundering and take off on a morning hike, sans Swarley because he refuses to move from his spot.

“Lovely.” I frown as I head up the small hill, attempting to pull my hair back into a ponytail. It’s maybe a half-inch ponytail.

My eyes and ears must look huge. I inwardly laugh at the thought. Yes, I care about my appearance. I like girly things. Nice things. Things in general. But I like people too. My family means the world to me. Do I have to be grounded and selfless to the point of never looking in a mirror or wearing a paper sack around, so—god forbid—no one thinks I care about myself more than is considered acceptable?