Chapter Three #2
“No, and I never have been that kind of guy. I’ve …
” His jaw tightened. “I’ve been busy with other things.
Working on myself. The truth is, I like the way you say what’s on your mind without hiding behind what you think I want to hear, and I like how you go from one topic to the next.
I just noticed that you tend to fill the silence and wondered if there was a reason. I’m sorry if I hit a nerve.”
She felt bad for jumping to the wrong conclusion. “It’s okay. I’m sorry for assuming you meant something else. I’m used to being too much for guys.”
“That’s a shame, but you’re a refreshing change for me,” he said, brushing his thumb over the back of her hand. “I was curious, that’s all.”
He started to pull his hand away, but she held on tighter and said, “Quiet can feel…loaded.”
“Loaded?” he asked.
“Yeah.” She inhaled deeply, trying to figure out how to express something she’d never talked about before.
People had told her she was too much, too loud, too all over the place, but nobody had ever asked her why she filled those gaps in conversations.
She wanted to talk about it with him. “I’m not sure how to describe it.
Silence gives people too much space for scrutiny. ”
His fingers closed around hers as he turned in his seat toward her, his knee resting against her leg. “And that bothers you? Being scrutinized?”
“No.” She turned, too, and he guided her legs between his, leaning in close, as if he didn’t want to miss a word.
“It’s what comes after and the stress of knowing it’s coming that bother me.
Once people realize I don’t fit into any of the normal boxes we put each other in, they either suddenly remember they left the stove on, or they want to change me. ”
“Isn’t being unique a good thing?”
“To me it is, but guys like to fix things. Me. They want to fix me.”
His jaw ticked again, as if he didn’t like hearing that. “What do you do when they try?”
“I rebel and talk more.” She lifted her chin. “Or I leave.”
He nodded, like that made sense to him.
“What do you do when things get hard?” she asked.
“I don’t run.”
“No?” she pressed.
“No,” he said. “I endure.”
Something in his voice made her chest ache. “That sounds exhausting.”
“It can be, which is why I’m in no hurry to jump back into another relationship.”
“Ah,” she said. “A man with limits.”
“I’ve always lived by them, and the few times I’ve deviated, things didn’t end well. Limits keep people safe. What about you? Is filling the silence tiring?”
He was watching her so intently, her pulse quickened.
“Depends on the company, but not usually. It’s who I’ve always been, and I like who I am, so I’m not going to let someone else change me.”
His thumb stroked a slow path over her knuckles. “I admire you for staying true to yourself.”
She noticed how careful he was with his words, each one purposeful and direct. She had a feeling he did everything purposefully, the soothingly seductive brush of his thumb, the way he listened like he wanted to figure her out, and the way his legs boxed hers in protectively.
“You don’t? Stay true to yourself, I mean?” she asked.
“I do now, but I spent a long time bending to other people’s wills.”
“I can’t imagine a man like you bending to anyone’s will.”
“Then I guess the changes I made are working.”
They finished their drinks as they talked, and she noticed that when they ordered another round, he ordered water.
“You slowing down already?” she asked.
“I like keeping my wits about me,” he said as their drinks were set in front of them, and he paid the bartender.
She tilted her head. “That’s disciplined.”
“I’ve always been that way. I like knowing where I am, who I’m with.”
The way he said it felt intimate, and the silence that followed didn’t feel as worrying as it did with others.
She leaned into it, the sizzling heat between them drowning out the din of the bar.
Only this felt deeper than mere physical attraction, as if they were bonded as much by the secrets they’d shared as the ones they hadn’t, taking her by surprise.
As open as she came across, she was used to being on guard, watching for signs that she was too much.
But other than that brief misunderstanding about her chattiness, she didn’t feel that way with him at all.
He looked down, and she followed his gaze to her foot resting on his. “Sorry,” she said, pulling her foot away.
He slid a hand behind her calf, lifting her leg just enough to slide his hand beneath the edge of her snow pants, and wrapping it around her ankle. Heat skated up her leg.
“How’s your ankle?” he asked.
She rolled it gently in his hand. There was no pain, only warmth. “Better.”
His brows knitted. “You sure?”
“Yes,” she said, loving his thoughtfulness. “You can stop worrying.”
“Not likely.” He guided her foot on top of his and rested his hand on her leg.
They both leaned in at the same time, and nearly silent laughs fell from their lips.
His attention lingered on her mouth for a long moment before he lifted those dark eyes to hers.
They connected with the pulsing heat of a volcano ready to blow.
Her heart thundered. She’d never felt this type of instant connection before, so fierce and fast, she wanted to run toward it.
He leaned closer, bringing his mouth beside her ear, and said, “Want to get out of here?” His voice was low and tantalizingly deep.
Her body screamed yes, but she tried to play it cool. “What do you have in mind?”
He met her gaze. “I don’t know yet, but I’m enjoying this, and I don’t want it to end here.”
Neither did she.
“How do you feel about hot tubs?”