Chapter 10 #2
“But that’s the best part of this place.” I gesture around the room. “Everything here is already broken.” I pick up a chipped tea pot on the shelf next to me. It’s painted light blue with pink flowers around the rim. I hand it to him. “See this? Someone already loved this enough to chip it.”
Shepherd takes it from me, his large fingers surprisingly gentle as they trace the jagged edge. “And that’s why you want it? Because it’s imperfect?” His warm hazel eyes catch my gaze and with the sunlight shining through the window, I can pick out tiny flecks of gold.
“Exactly.” I watch his face, trying to gauge his reaction. “Perfect things are boring. They don’t have stories.”
He nods slowly, as if he’s registering everything I’m not saying.
“And what story does this one tell?”
I shrug, suddenly self-conscious. “Maybe it belonged to someone’s grandmother. Maybe it got chipped during an argument. Maybe—”
“Maybe someone loved it too much,” he finishes, handing it back to me.
Something thick and uncomfortable lodges in my throat at his words. I set the teapot down, careful not to chip it further, and turn away before he can see whatever expression is trying to form on my face.
“Come on,” I say, clearing my throat. “The good stuff’s in the back.”
Within five minutes, he knocks a hanger to the floor. Within ten, he accidentally spins an entire clothing rack. By fifteen, he’s holding up a teal sequined blazer like it personally offended him.
“This…exists?” he says.
“Hell yeah, it exists. Look at it!” I marvel. “It’s glorious.” It’s not. It’s loud and shiny but this is the fun of thrifting so I’ll gladly be excited about this rare find.
“It’s aggressive.”
“It’s fashion!” I exclaim. “Maybe there’s only one of these in existence in the whole world and it’s right here in your hands.”
He studies it, nods, and then puts it in the cart.
“You’re buying that?” I ask.
“No,” he says calmly. “You are.”
I burst out a laugh. “Oh, my God.”
We round the corner into the home décor aisle and I immediately regret everything. The shelves are stacked with ceramic angels, glass vases, questionable porcelain dolls, and at least forty-seven decorative plates with inspirational quotes in cursive.
The floorboards creak beneath Shepherd’s weight, and I find myself hyperaware of his presence behind me, the gentle rhythm of his breathing, and the way he carefully maneuvers his broad frame to avoid knocking things over.
“This feels…breakable.”
“It is,” I say, trying not to grin at the bull in the China shop.
He looks down at his hands like they’re brand new. “These are not small hands.”
“You’re just aware of that now?” I laugh.
“Nah, I’ve always been aware.”
“What is it they say again about a man with big hands?”
He nearly trips over his own feet and chokes on his own saliva. “Did you…” He tilts his head. “Did you want me to answer that?”
“Nah,” I laugh as I lead us forward. “Think I got it.”
Not saying a word, Shepherd carefully steps between two shelves like he’s defusing a bomb. A cart squeaks past behind him and he instinctively shifts sideways…directly into a display of crystal figurines.
The entire shelf wobbles.
Time slows and I inhale sharply at the scene in front of me that seems to play in slow motion.
Shepherd freezes, his eyes widening as the wobble continues.
A tiny glass swan tips forward dramatically.
Without thinking, he lunges forward, his massive hand catching the swan mid-fall, the other hand bracing the shelf.
Silence surrounds us as we stare at the tiny swan in his palm.
“Did you just make a game-saving interception in aisle seven?” I ask.
He exhales slowly. “I react well under pressure.”
I laugh loud enough that an elderly woman three shelves down glares at me over her bifocals.
“Put it back gently,” I whisper.
“I’m trying.”
His fingers look comically oversized around the delicate glass neck, but he eases it back onto the shelf.
I choose not to tell him that he looks like he’s placing a sleeping newborn into a crib.
It’s cute though and makes me smile. Shepherd Haynes may be a big tough guy on the field but the more I’m with him, the more I wonder if maybe he’s really just a big teddy bear of a man.
When the wobble settles and the crisis is averted Shepherd straightens, running a hand through his hair.
“I think that thing tried to take me out.”
I snicker. “It sensed weakness for sure.”
“I don’t have weaknesses.”
“You absolutely have weaknesses.”
He arches an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“I mean, come on. You’re one aggressive sneeze away from committing mass ceramic homicide.”
His mouth twitches. “Noted. I’ll hold my breath.”
We move deeper into the aisle, and he keeps his arms tucked in, elbows tight to his ribs. I glance at him and burst out in laughter, feeling mildly guilty for bringing him in here.
“You don’t have to shrink yourself.”
“I’m not shrinking.”
“You’re walking like a T-Rex.”
“I am adapting.”
I grin as he picks up a porcelain figurine of a ballerina, examining it carefully.
“This one looks judgmental.”
“That’s because you’re holding it wrong.”
“There’s a correct way to hold a ceramic ballerina?”
“There’s a correct way to do everything.”
He studies me for a beat. “That explains a lot.”
“About?”
“You.”
I narrow my eyes. “In what way?”
“You handle things carefully. Even when you pretend you don’t.”
That lands. Not too hard but definitely unexpected. Somehow without my realizing it, Shepherd Haynes is seeing me, and I’m not sure how I feel about that. I look away first, swallowing my emotions, and thankfully he doesn’t push it further.
He watches me as I move through racks. Not in a possessive way. More in a curious way. “Are you looking for something specific?” he asks.
“Potential,” I say.
“That sounds philosophical.”
“It is.”
I hold up a worn denim jacket. “See this? Everyone else sees old. I see character.”
He nods slowly.
But again, Shepherd doesn’t push. If he’s analyzing, he’s not admitting it. He just quietly answers, “Makes sense.”
We move to the housewares section where I pick up a cracked teacup and run my thumb along the fracture line.
“Why this?” he asks, glancing over my shoulder.
“It survived,” I say without thinking. My chest tightens when I realize all the little secrets about myself that I’ve inadvertently let free.
In a way, he makes it so easy to say what’s on my mind because I don’t feel like he’s judging me.
Honestly that shocks me more than anything given the differences between us.
I survive on thrifted items. Shepherd, on the other hand, could afford to buy everything in this store like he’s buying a cheeseburger at a fast food joint.
On the other hand, though, I’m grateful that Shepherd doesn’t ask a ton of questions or assume I’ll tell him everything about myself.
Especially the dark, lonely parts. He doesn’t do any of those things and he doesn’t make me feel bad for keeping parts of me closed off.
He’s just a comfortable presence walking beside me.
Like what we’re doing is perfectly normal.
Outside, sunlight filters through the trees as we carry our bags to the car.
I am now the owner of two new teacups and one extremely sparkly, sequined teal jacket, compliments of Shepherd.
My heart hammers against my ribs, a sincere smile playing across my face as we make small talk about our newest purchases.
If I’m being honest with myself, I feel lighter.
And that terrifies me.
I shouldn’t be enjoying myself with Shepherd Haynes. He’s all wrong for me.
But he feels so…right
Except people like him don’t stay with people like me.
“You’re good at this,” he says, pulling me from my thoughts.
“At shopping?” My voice sounds brittle even to me.
“At seeing things differently.”
I shrug, my throat tight. “You have to learn to.”
“Why?”
I hesitate because saying the real answer would mean cracking myself open, exposing the broken parts I’ve spent years hiding. So instead, I deflect. “Why are you so calm all the time?”
He laughs softly. “Practice.”
“That’s not a real answer.” My pulse races as his gaze holds mine.
His tongue sweeps across his lips just before he says, “It’s the only one I’ve got.”
We stand here staring at each other, neither of us knowing what to say next. We’re too close and yet…not close enough. The moment stretches like a wire about to snap and something shifts inside me.
He’s not pushing.
He’s not expecting.
He’s just…here.
With me.
And I feel safe with him. Safe enough that I want to know what it feels like to stop holding back. To stop second guessing. Before I tell myself not to, I grab the front of his henley and pull him down.
And I kiss him.
It’s not perfect. Our noses bump and I almost laugh, but then his hand settles lightly at my waist—not grabbing, not holding, but grounding—and the world goes quiet for a few seconds. He’s warm and steady and…and dammit he makes me feel things I’m not sure I’ve ever felt.
I pull back quickly, my heart racing as I brush my lips with the tips of my fingers, as if I’ll be able to feel the tingling sensation warming through my body. And then suddenly my defensive armor snaps back into place.
“Shit. I’m sorry,” I say immediately. “That didn’t mean anything.”
He studies me quietly and I fear he’s going to say something that’ll make me feel like a horrible person. Like I’m playing with his emotions or that I’m not what he expected or that I’m leading him on or that I know I want it so why don’t I just give it up for him.
My stomach churns.
But Shepherd smiles.
He. Smiles.
Soft and knowing as he says, “Okay.”
Okay?
What, no argument?
No pressure?
I don’t understand what’s happening but my chest suddenly feels like it might crack open. A quiet beat passes between us before he speaks again, his voice low and careful.
“Can I ask you one thing?”
I hesitate, then nod once.
His eyes hold mine, steady, warm, and impossibly tender. He brings a hand ever so gently to cup my face, his thumb slowly smoothing over my cheek. The touch way more intimate than I ever expected.
“Who hurt you, Sutton?” The question lands softly, but it still knocks the air from my lungs. He must see it, because he immediately adds, “Fuck, you don’t have to answer that. I’m not asking for details.”
I swallow, my eyes glistening with unshed tears. He shifts closer to me. Not crowding, but present.
“I just want you to know…” His voice dips, quieter now. “Whatever it was…whoever it was, it wasn’t me. And I’m not that guy.”
Something fragile inside me trembles and my chin betrays me and starts to quiver.
“I’ll never rush you. And I’ll never push past what you’re ready for,” he continues gently. “But I promise you I will always make sure you feel safe around me. That part’s not negotiable.”
My throat tightens because he didn’t say it like a promise he expects gratitude for. He stated it as a fact.
And I want to wholeheartedly believe him.
And for the first time in a long time, I don’t know what to do with that.
I should step back.
I should put space between us.
I should laugh off his words or change the subject or do literally anything that puts my walls back where they belong.
But I don’t do any of those things.
I don’t move at all and worse, I don’t want to.
My fingers are curled loosely in the fabric of his henley, and when I realize it, I start to let go, but he shifts slightly, and the motion makes my hand slide against his chest. I freeze because instead of pulling away, my thumb brushes across the seam of the fabric like it belongs there.
Like he belongs there.
Heat rushes through me, sharp and startling.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I clear my throat, forcing my hand to drop back to my side, my heart racing harder now for an entirely different reason.
This is dangerous.
Not because Shepherd Haynes is unsafe.
But because he isn’t.
And that’s infinitely worse.