Chapter 5
Davis
When Sophie was finally safely in the other room, I braced against the counter, trying to control my breathing and bring my heartbeat under control.
If Sophie ever learned exactly how easily she got to me, there'd be no stopping her.
She was playing with fire, and I was bone-dry tinder.
It had taken all of my restraint to keep from pushing to my feet, stripping my shirt over my head, then sliding our dinner dishes to the floor so I could invite her to thoroughly examine my chest. Among other things. . .
Shaking my head at my imagination, I forced myself to inhale deeply, filling my lungs with Sophie-free air.
The woman was a menace. She'd been fucking adorable, cuddling with the kittens in the barn, licking her finger as she turned pages.
The tip of her pink tongue emerging with a tiny flick had nearly made me groan aloud.
Only the thought that I didn't want my furry babies witnessing us hooking up kept me propped against my office door.
That and the prospect of cat hair in places I couldn't easily explain helped me resist.
But for how much longer?
If Sophie flirted every time I turned around, I wouldn't last long.
Having her around distracted me. I wasn't usually alone-alone on the farm—I had Jo—but being with Sophie reminded me that I'd become entrenched in my habits, shutting out the rest of the world. Which begged the question: how did Sophie so easily burrow under my skin?
I’d grown used to being self-sufficient. I had my kittens, my work, my books. Jo and the handful of friends I hung out with on occasion filled in the gaps. I didn’t need more. Didn’t want it. That way led to disappointment. Disillusionment.
I finished cleaning up the kitchen, taking my time. Avoiding Sophie. When I could delay no longer, I made my way back to the couch, flopping down beside her, careful to leave a gap between us.
She wouldn't look at me, her face stubbornly turned toward the TV, and I felt like a heel.
Had I been too abrupt with her? I was out of practice with socializing.
It wasn't Sophie's fault that her standard response was good-natured flirtatiousness, and mine was silence.
It struck me that this was how she felt when I didn't respond. Shut out. Ashamed.
I scrubbed my face with my hands, wishing I could wipe away my mistakes.
Sophie laughed at something on the TV, and the sound filled the room, light and carefree. It wrapped insidious hands around my heart, drawing me in until I wanted to bathe in that expression of joy. Touch it. Take it for myself. Like the worst kind of miser. I shrugged off the selfish impulse.
Sophie's laughter was a thing of beauty. And like all beautiful things, not meant for a beast like me. If I spent more time with her, I'd only dim her light. Sophie deserved better.
She deserved someone who would buoy her happiness, not drag her down into whatever depressive mess I'd become.
She was all things bright and joyful. I was…
not. The sooner I accepted that, the sooner she accepted that, the easier it would be for both of us.
I couldn't be her adoring prince. I could only ever be her preoccupied pauper, consumed with my own responsibilities.
Instead of staying for whatever nonsense she'd put on TV, I slipped into my bedroom, closing the door with a final click.
It should have been freeing. I'd chosen not to torture myself. So why did denying myself more time with her feel like a fucking prison?
I snagged my current read from my bedside table, hoping to immerse myself in a mystery I could solve.
Or more accurately, settling in for a good brood.
Scowling at the book cover, I read the first line and read it again before giving up, settling back with my hands behind my head to stare at my ceiling.
Sophie laughed again, the sound leaking through my closed door like an invitation. A lure toward a different life.
I popped my earbuds in, turning on music to drown out her amusement, ignoring the emptiness that crept in, stealing the peace I usually found in solitude. Just because I wanted her didn’t make it the right move for either one of us. Someday, she’d realize we both dodged a bullet.