Chapter 12
Davis
Every time I thought I had a handle on what the fuck I was doing, I bobbled it. I paced my room, disgusted with myself. Sophie was the most beautiful, caring woman I’d ever met. She seemed to see something she liked in my antisocial ass, and all I could do was fuck it up.
I yanked my door open, needing to see her in person, regretting trying to reassure her via text. But my track record keeping my head in her presence wasn’t so hot.
I bypassed her door, beelining for the bathroom instead at the last second, where I splashed water on my face from the sink. I shook the droplets off like a dog, snorting. Like a little cold water could wake me from the spell she had me under.
I examined the man frowning fiercely in the mirror. I needed a haircut. And a shave. Maybe a personality transplant if I was going to attempt a real relationship with Sophie.
Sighing, I tried to see what she saw in me.
Lines bracketed my eyes from squinting against the sun out in the fields.
My ex had called my mouth “sensuous” when she was feeling kind, but it didn’t have the permanent tilt at the corners, like I was on the edge of laughing.
Sophie’s mouth did. The last thing I wanted to do was sully her sweetness with my sour self.
I braced against the sink.
She deserved better. But I couldn’t stay away.
I couldn’t let her think that she was anything less than amazing.
Filled with renewed purpose, I stalked to her door, pausing in front of the solid wood.
What was I thinking? I should leave her alone. Her last text couldn’t have been clearer. She was done with me.
But I wouldn’t sleep if I didn’t apologize. I couldn’t bear the idea that I’d left her upset.
Hands braced on the door molding, I let my head fall forward to thunk against Jo’s bedroom door.
If Jo were here, she’d no doubt ram it against the wood a few more times for good measure. I had no business messing with one of her friends. The way I kept lodging my foot in my mouth, she was likely to lodge her own boots in my backside if I made things worse.
"See? This is what I'm talking about," I grumbled, voice rough.
Sophie ripped the door open, surprising me into losing my balance. I fell hard against the door frame, wincing when my bad arm made contact with the wood.
"Dammit."
She shook her head. "I'm sorry, Davis. I didn't mean to hurt you."
"That's my line," I said, unable to tear my eyes away from her soft face. I hated the uncertainty in her expression. The anger.
"How's your arm?" she asked. "Is it your turn with the ice pack?"
I grimaced. "Maybe. I'll get one in a minute. This is more important."
There was so much I wanted to say, but forcing the words out when she stood, so beautiful in front of me, was ten times harder. Text was easy, but she deserved more. More than me, if I was honest. But that didn’t stop me from aching for her.
Apologizing was on the tip of my tongue. I just couldn’t decide what for. For wanting her more than I could express, or for not being enough to make it work? Both were true, and the urge to protect her warred with the desire to make her mine.
Standing in front of her made the conflict worse, until it felt like I was being ripped in two, split down the middle.
One half was the man who wanted to tumble her into bed and worship every curve until she melted into a puddle of satisfaction.
The other voice inside me whispered “retreat.” Sophie deserved better than a divorced man with mediocre communication skills and hard-won control over his angry side.
"Davis, your mixed signals are driving me wild."
I clenched my hands. Maybe if I gripped tightly enough, I’d weld the two halves of myself together into some semblance of an answer.
"It's one of the many reasons this probably wouldn't work." I kept my delivery matter-of-fact with an effort. It was nothing less than the truth.
The flash of disappointment on Sophie’s face struck like an arrow to the heart. I hated seeing her in any pain, but couldn’t stop causing it.
"Davis, do you want me?" she asked.
"Yes." My answer popped out. She deserved the truth.
"Are you worried about it getting weird if we don't work out?"
"Maybe."
"Me too," she said. "Do you want to try anyway?"
"Probably too much," I admitted. “Jo is going to kill me if I mess this up, but I like you. And I am not used to liking anybody.”
She grabbed my good hand, leading me back toward the kitchen as if I’d spit out a sonnet instead of a basic apology.
"Good."
She offered me a fresh ice pack from the freezer before tugging me to the living room couch.
Her matter-of-fact approach after I struggled to string two sentences together to explain myself and reassure her touched me.
She seemed to sense that I’d confessed as much as I was capable of for one night.
She chattered about her lesson plans for the next day, watching me as the cold pack did the trick. "You look like you're feeling better."
I grunted my agreement, and she smoothed the hem of her pink pajamas. I couldn’t look away from her pink fingernails brushing over the fabric, mesmerizing me with visions of her stroking me. She stilled, sensing my attention.
"Everything you own is soft and colorful. Or covered in sequins. Do you even own a piece of clothing in a practical color?” I asked more gruffly than I intended.
She squinted, annoyance flashing across her features. "Depends on how you define practical."
My frown deepened. I’d managed to make staring less creepy, but I’d offended her in the process. Apologizing would be the gentlemanly thing to do. But it was easier to antagonize her than to admit that everything about her turned me on. Fighting my attraction for her was a losing battle.
"The usual way. Suitable for a particular purpose. Functional. Sensible. Useful."
"Oh. You mean boring." She shook her head. "Yeah, I try to avoid that. It's bad for business."
"What business? Balloon business?"
She shrugged, biting back a smile when she noticed I was mesmerized by her rounded shoulder.
Creamy and soft, fantasies of tracing kisses along the silky fabric and discovering the treasures beneath gripped me.
Her wide-necked sleep shirt wasn't strictly practical, but she was picking up on the fact that I didn’t mind one darned bit.
She rolled her head, the motion emphasizing the tendons in her slim neck. My mouth went dry. I wanted nothing more than to strip her out of her soft pink pajamas and worship.
"Balloon business, classroom business, life. I'm pretty sure being colorful is a job requirement at Bluff Elementary. Think of it as a kind of reverse-camo to fit in with the elementary kids and keep their attention."
It sure as fuck worked on me. If she had any more of my attention, I’d stroke out from lack of blood flow to my brain.
I squinted, trying to focus on stringing together a coherent response. "So your wardrobe is a strategic choice?"
"Exactly," she said, looking pleased.
Her full cheeks, pursed lips, and eyes alight with something akin to satisfaction nearly undid me. I wanted to see a more potent version of that expression: utterly satisfied—and all mine.
I swallowed, trying to remember what we were discussing. "If you weren't a teacher, what would you wear?"
"Hot pink, wild patterns, and sequins," she said, grinning. "I like it sparkly. I can't help who I am."
Neither could I. Her words reminded me of our differences, but I couldn’t ignore this opportunity to get to the heart of Sophie. She was so wildly different from me, it was fascinating to hear her perspective.
"And who is that?" I asked.
She paused, maybe sensing I was reflecting on our differences. "A woman who loves life and has discovered at the advanced age of twenty-eight that I don't care what anyone else thinks of how I dress."
I arched one dark brow, amused. "Twenty-eight is advanced?"
She nodded solemnly.
"What does that make me?"
"An elder."
I winced. Her enthusiasm for life made her seem younger than she was, and my responsibilities made me feel like the oldest thirty-three-year-old on the planet. But she lit up my world, making everything, including the future, a bit brighter in her presence.