Balance (Oakley’s Crew #2)

5. Cane

5

CANE

O akley’s Crew has been here for three days in a row, and I feel like I’m crawling out of my skin every damn day with the need to talk to him. It’s like a living thing inside me. One I can’t explain.

When I see Archie head to the backyard, while Walker and another crew member who’s new to the project today look at the porch to start reconstruction on it, I see my opportunity and take it.

Evie’s not home today and joked about leaving them in my capable hands while she’s at work. It feels like betrayal, walking toward Archie, but I don’t mean it to be. I just need a moment alone with him. I just need to explain myself.

I get stunned stupid for a moment as I watch him—he doesn’t see me right away—and my eyes take the time to roam over his strong, muscular body as he works. He’s digging up the earth for a firepit, working on making the spot just right to build it from the ground up.

He has the sleeves of his orange Oakley’s Crew t-shirt rolled up, showing off every sinewy vein in his bulging biceps, sweat dripping off him. I find myself wanting to lick his skin and taste him again. Just once.

I wince at the thought. Those are not thoughts I should be having three weeks before my wedding.

I swallow hard, trying to push it away. I tell myself it’s just cold feet. Perfectly normal. And I try to make my voice sound confident and firm as he finally notices my approach.

“What are you doing out here?” He doesn’t sound as rageful as he did the other day, but there’s a coldness in his tone that I absolutely hate.

“Please let me explain.”

He sighs loudly, standing up taller and bracing the shovel with his big hands, his eyes going toward the front of the house. Probably to see if Walker and the other member of the crew are watching. They aren’t, and he must be satisfied with that because his eyes meet mine again. “I told you I don’t want to hear it.”

“Why not? What are you afraid of?” I question, taking a step closer to him but keeping a safe distance between our bodies.

He laughs, but it’s uncertain. “I’m not afraid of anything.”

“So then talk to me,” I try again, desperate for him to understand. To keep talking. To give me a chance.

“It doesn’t matter. You’re getting married, so why the hell do you care so much about explaining to me about the night you cheated on your future wife?”

I shouldn’t. I know that. But I do. “We weren’t together,” I say quickly, and I hope he knows it’s the truth.

“Bullshit.”

“We weren’t.” I take another step in his direction, my eyes on him.

“She said you guys have been together since you were kids. Dated in high school.” His expression is angry, though he’s trying to play it cool. Is he jealous?

That shouldn’t thrill me.

I’m so fucked up.

“You’ve never heard of a breakup?”

That gives him pause, it seems. He cocks his head to the side to study me, and I square my shoulders, standing tall.

“We weren’t together when I walked into that tavern.” The mere memory of our night together threatens to make my knees weak. I didn’t have to think. I just went with it for the first time in my life.

No overthinking. No worrying. I just did what felt good. And damn, did it feel good.

“I’m not a cheater,” I say, my eyes on his as I try to convey the truth to him. I would never do that, no matter how angry or horny or whatever—there’s no way I’d cheat.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Why not?” I ask dumbly, my attention locked in on his expressive eyes.

“Because you’re getting married!” His voice is loud, and he seems upset by his momentary lack of control.

“I just didn’t want you to think of me that way,” I say softly, my hand aching to reach out and touch him. That wouldn’t be right. I’m engaged. I love Evie—but... God, I want to.

I want to feel his heated skin and taste his lips. I want to go back to that hotel room—where it was just us—where I was carefree and more myself than I’d ever felt. But I can’t, and I keep my hands to myself.

“Why does it matter what I think of you?” he asks, his voice low again, and I don’t detect any anger. What I do feel from his words though—it’s worse. It’s more... sadness. There’s sadness there.

“I don’t know,” I say honestly. “It just does. The way you looked at me when you saw me with Evie, and you thought that you were just?—”

“Just what?” he asks, his eyes searching mine.

“Some cheap fuck,” I say, my throat feeling dry and the words making me feel ill. It makes no sense. By all accounts, that’s exactly what it should have been, but it wasn’t. There was something there. Something real. From the moment he smiled at me and the adorable way he flirted—it was real. Too real. I had to get out of there because I was afraid I’d want to stay. And that just wouldn’t be possible. “Someone to cheat on my fiancée with. It wasn’t like that.”

I hold my breath and wait for him to speak—having no idea what he’s going to say or what I want him to say. He’s kind of right—at the end of the day, it doesn’t matter. I’m getting married. I don’t know him. He doesn’t know me.

Maybe we could’ve had something, but it’s too late now.

“It doesn’t matter though,” he says, echoing my thoughts, his eyes intense and fierce. Unwavering as he looks at me. I let him down somehow, without even knowing him.

I disappointed him. And I hate that.

“Arch—”

“Don’t,” he says, but it’s not as firm as earlier. It’s quiet and pleading, and it slices right through me. He looks away, and I watch him look around the property and try to find his bearings. “As far as I’m concerned, that night never happened.”

It stings. More than it should. I’m about to be a married man. It shouldn’t matter that this man will never think about that night again. It shouldn’t make me feel sick and just plain sad. But it does. I want to argue with him. Tell him how important that night was to me. That it wasn’t just a cheap hookup, even though I wasn’t there in the morning—but God, I wanted to be.

I watch as he schools his features into a warm, misleading smile because I know he doesn’t actually feel like smiling as his eyes meet mine again. “Three weeks until the wedding.” It sounds almost ominous, even though his face doesn’t match that tone. “Don’t worry, Mr. Butler. We’ll have everything ready for you and your fiancée by then.” His eyes narrow, and his smile slips just ever so slightly. “But you have to let me work.”

Message clear.

He wants me to leave him alone.

I nod my head and offer up my own equally fake smile. “Thank you. I know we’re in good hands.”

I meant it innocently—sort of—but now I can’t stop thinking about his hands being on me. The strong, capable, big hands that brought me so much pleasure...

He may be able to dismiss me, and I do walk away from him slowly, back to the house, but I’m never actually going to be able to forget about that night.

He has to know that.