CHAPTER FOUR #2
The wine in my bloodstream made my brain spin too fast and I couldn’t get out any words.
Not that I had any idea what I would actually say to Jagger, but for some reason, the silence between us felt more awkward than if we were speaking.
It was a more silent silence than I’d ever experienced before, and it just made my eyes keep drifting back to his bare feet.
Then I’d grow angry because there was absolutely nothing unappealing about them, except for the fact that they were feet.
I sipped more beer, because at least then my hands and mouth were moving. And if my mouth was full, I couldn’t speak, right? Right.
Before I knew it, I finished the beer and stumbled my way to the mini fridge where I grabbed another bottle, this time, the winter chai Witbier. All Jagger did was watch me. He hadn’t said anything though, and it drove me nuts.
Say something ! I yelled at him in my head.
His eyes traveled back down to the pages of his book, and he flipped one, which for some reason irritated the crap out of me as I sat on the corner of the bed again, stewing.
“Why are you …” I started, prompting him to lift his gaze to me, along with his eyebrows.
“Why am I …?”
I wasn’t actually sure what I was going to say. Those were just the first words that came out of my mouth, apparently bypassing my brain entirely because I didn’t remember thinking about them.
Why are you … so annoying? Why are you … so tall? Why are you … so fucking sexy, but at the same time, the bane of my fucking existence?
He tilted his head to the side, waiting for me to answer.
“Why are you …” I started again, searching the drunken sea of my brain for something to say that wouldn’t just be fuel for his insults. “Why are you on the bed?” I finally spat out, instantly regretting my decision to say anything, let alone those specific words.
A slow, menacing smile spread across his mouth. “Because it’s more comfortable than the floor.”
“You’re not sleeping in this bed with me.”
He glanced at the plethora of pillows carefully displayed on the cushion near the drafty bay window. “You’re a hell of a lot shorter than me, Elsa. You can take the window seat.”
White hot anger roared to life inside of me. “Your mama sure didn’t raise you right, did she?”
The amused expression on his face dropped like a stone in a pond and a chilly wind of worry whipped through me.
“I’ll warn you to never speak of my mother again,” he said, his angry voice like a knife, sharp and serrated, yet also so calm and almost a whisper.
I couldn’t stop the icy shiver that ran down the valley of my spine.
Or the way my nipples pebbled beneath my flannel pajamas.
I swallowed and tipped my chin up a little, but didn’t say anything. Our gazes remained locked for an uncountable number of heartbeats. I refused to be the first one to look away, but goddamn it, I was. “I’m sorry,” I finally murmured.
He took a sip of his beer, which seemed to finish it, then unfolded himself off the bed and stalked his enormous frame back to the fridge, where he crouched down. “What wine do you recommend?”
Even though he offered me one of his beers—and I took two—I hadn’t offered him any of my wine. However, I wasn’t sure if I had it in me to continue to be argumentative and say anything either.
“Grab the rosé,” I said, pivoting on the bed to face the closet where he was.
He nodded and stood up again, the cords of his forearms protruding, and his biceps bunching when he unscrewed the cap. Then he brought the bottle to his mouth and took a sip, nodding in approval as his throat moved on a long swallow. “It’s good.”
My eyes were laser focused on the slow, steady bob of his Adam’s apple, until he tilted his head down again and his beard blocked it. “So is your beer.”
He sat back down on the bed against the headboard, but didn’t pick up his book.
I swallowed and stared at the duvet cover like it was a freaking Picasso, because if I didn’t, I’d inevitably stare at his feet again.
Or his face. Or his arms and the way they seemed to be actively trying to rip their way out of his shirt.
“Can I ask you something?” he said, after another long silence flickered between us like a live wire.
I took a long sip of my beer and raised an eyebrow.
“Why’d you leave?” An earnest, almost vulnerable look settled in his eyes. Gone was the joking jerk. The enemy with an affinity for pushing my buttons.
I also knew exactly what he was referring to. It was the secret we’d successfully kept from our families for nearly five years.
The way he blinked behind those glasses and settled his lips into a thin line unnerved me. It made him seem less threatening. Less annoying, and a lot more boyish. A lot more … tolerable. Perhaps even slightly vulnerable.
This all had to be a ploy though. A trick to get me to let down my guard.
I scoffed. “Are you honestly, after all these years, still dwelling on the rejection?” Rolling my eyes, I put the beer bottle to my lips and sipped, glancing away because it was a hell of a lot easier than looking at him.
Then, because I wasn’t ready to answer him, I chugged the beer until it was done.
“Easy,” he murmured as I got up, went to the fridge and pulled out another bottle of wine, this time a Reisling.
I shot him a look as I unscrewed the cap and took a long sip. I couldn’t chug wine the way I could beer, but I drank as much as I could—liquid courage, or whatever—and kept my gaze as far away from his as possible.
His exhale of impatience pulled hard at my insecurities more than it did at my frustration.
Even his tone was more sad, more confused, than it was upset.
“Look, I can deal with the rejection. I’m a grown-ass man.
An adult. What I want to know is what happened between the two weeks we spent getting to know each other online, chatting all day, every day, to when we finally agreed to meet? You took one look at me and bolted.”
I still couldn’t look at him, because if I did, I’d tell him the truth. All of it. Every traumatic, nightmarish detail. “You didn’t look like your pictures,” I said flippantly, choosing to be a bitch rather than real with him. We didn’t both need to be vulnerable here. It wasn’t a requirement.
His laugh was humorless and bitter. “Bullshit. I actually look exactly like my pictures. There was absolutely no catfishing going on and you know it. Try again.”
Fine. The only man I’d ever been with was my husband—who is now dead—and I’d never even been on a date. You were too freaking good looking, and I got scared. I chickened out. I’m a yellow-bellied coward.
I didn’t say that though.
“Then, when I tried to ask you what happened in our chat, you blocked me.”
I shrugged. “Not a crime.”
“No, but it’s rude.”
I shrugged again and took another sip of my wine.
“ Then , you rock up to the island two months later, step into my world, into my book club, into the farmer’s market, my running trails, and seem to be absolutely everywhere I am. And when I try to talk to you, you just turn into this massive …”
I pivot my gaze back to him, the alcohol in my system making me scrappy and eager to get into another fight. Fighting was easier than the thing I actually wanted to do to him. It was our norm. It was safe. “A massive what?” I challenged. “A massive bitch?”
“Ice queen,” he finished, slowly. “Then you started slinging insults at me—entirely unprovoked, I might add—and copying my social media posts about the brewery, just changing the verbiage to suit the winery. You piggybacked on all our campaigns and promotions, and even tried to persuade tourists to choose you over us.”
“I did not,” I argued. His dismissive headshake unearthed a drunk fury inside of me and I bunched my empty fist, my body getting hot.
“We’re not your competition, Raina. We don’t sell the same things.
Why can’t we work together? Compliment each other’s businesses?
Offer vouchers for each other’s places? I mean, we carry your wine in our pub.
Gabrielle and Clint want to collaborate more.
Hell, even I’m open to it. It just seems like you’re the one putting up all the roadblocks for a successful partnership. ”
Clenching my molars, I glanced away again. He wasn’t wrong. Not about any of it.
“Look at me, Raina.”
Before I knew what I was doing, I snapped my gaze up to his face, meeting his confused stare. It pulled at every one of my frigid and frayed heartstrings.
“I’d like an answer. Why did you leave the café that day? And more importantly, why are you hell-bent on keeping us so adversarial?”
“You’re not my type. Okay?” I gave another shrug, but this one was feeble.
A coward’s shrug. “I handled it poorly. I’m sorry.
It’s just, a lot of guys don’t know how to take no for an answer and can’t deal with rejection, and you just seemed like one of those guys.
So I figured being mean to you was the best way to get you to back off.
I’m sorry if I was wrong. If I assumed. ”
His eyes bore into me like two midnight-blue laser beams, probing and seeking the truth at any cost. A small, sexy muscle on either side of his jaw worked back and forth, like he was squeezing his molars together.
I stared at them, where they hid beneath the perfectly trimmed beard, since it was easier to count the movements in his jaw than it was to stare at his feet, or at his face.
Those were danger zones. So was the front of his pajama pants, but so far, I’d done a decent job of keeping my eyes away from there.
Oh shit. Now I was thinking about the front of his pajama pants and like heat-seeking missiles, my eyes slid down his torso, landing right there.
Ugh!
My eyes languidly made their way back up to his face. “You started dishing it back though. You’re not innocent in this.”
Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!
I thought for sure he was going to say something like, “You started it.”