Chapter 20
TWENTY
Dutch
She didn’t come by that night. Or the next day. Or the next.
Having her for a moment then knowing she was so close and so far away was a special kind of crazy making.
Restless, I punished myself on the rowing machine as the sun broke over the trees. Mouse stared at me the whole time, his head perched on the couch arm. His big eyes sad and accusatory at the same time.
I mopped the sweat off my face. “Stop looking at me like that.”
He moved his head behind the arm with a sigh.
The burn between my shoulders told me I overdid it, but I still went over to my kettle bells and did more body abusing sets. The usual reward for exercising was missing. Instead, all I could see was her hurt face in my mind’s eye.
Why the hell had I said that to her? Of course she hadn’t read my book. Even if she actually wanted to read it, I’d made damn sure no one could, thanks to my shorthand. The pages for Monte were locked in a drawer for fuck’s sake.
Beyond that, if she had read them, it wouldn’t be the end of the world.
She wasn’t going to steal them. Intellectually, I knew I could trust her, but I was so messed up about writing this book, I didn’t trust anything—including myself at this point.
I’d just been startled how completely she’d pulled the scene out of my mind’s eye. Was it just because of the stories she’d told me? Maybe I’d been the one to actually lift it out of her personal memories.
Not facts.
“Fuck,” I growled and dropped the kettle bell onto the mat.
Mouse’s head popped up.
I went over to him and patted his head. “It’s okay.
I’m not mad at you. I’m mad at me. Again.
” I dropped next to him on the couch and he got up and turned himself around to rest his head on my arm.
I sighed and wrapped an arm around him. “She probably misses you almost as much as you miss her.” I touched my forehead to his. “As we both do.”
Mouse’s tail thumped.
“Let me take a shower and we’ll go see her.”
His tail thumped harder. I had no idea if he could actually understand me, but it didn’t seem to matter. I fucked up. If I still wanted her in my life I had to fix it.
Maybe it’s better if you’re alone.
I closed my eyes against that thought. Alone would get the book done faster.
That was a lie. I hadn’t touched my chalkboard or my manuscript for the last two days.
Annoyed with myself, I left the dog on the couch and headed to my room to get ready. I took an extra five minutes to pick out clothes after my shower. Ones that I knew she liked. The forest green plaid and dark washed jeans with a Henley.
I stared at myself in the mirror. The heavy beard was getting unruly. I walked back into the bathroom and dug out my clippers. Before I could think about it too long, I set it to a lower setting and buzzed a line through the dense hair.
I preferred a beard, but it didn’t have to be refugee-from-a-plane-crash long like it was. I almost went right up my sideburns into my hair, but paused at the last minute. Beard I could handle. My hair? I’d do a hack job there.
The tap of toenails told me Mouse had arrived to push me along.
I found a moisturizer that hadn’t been used in months.
My skin was going to freak out being able to breathe this much.
I swiped my hand over my face to settle the beard down.
I didn’t look so gaunt anymore. Well, my eyes had circles under them from lack of sleep, but it was a far cry from the man who had arrived in New York a little over a month before.
“You’re such a fuckhead,” I told my reflection.
I got ready and when I added the belt to my jeans, Mouse hopped off my bed, his tail wagging madly.
“Yeah, we’re going.”
He did a big downward stretch, the wiggles increasing.
“C’mon.”
He raced me to the door, bumping me into the doorjamb to get out before me as he barked and twirled at the end of the hallway.
I opened the front door and he shot out and down the stairs in a flash.
I didn’t bother with a jacket, the sun was high in the sky lending the first scent of spring to the air.
It had rained overnight, making the gravel road dark with puddles and mud. My dog didn’t care. The road felt entirely too wide between us. A distance I’d created.
My gut twisted, but I kept walking.
Her truck was under the portico. I clenched and unclenched my fingers. As I got closer I noticed the doors to her studio were open to let in the fresh air. Mouse waited at the bottom of her drive, turning in circles before running back to me to herd me faster to where we both wanted to be.
“Okay, okay,” I said and laughed for the first time in days.
I climbed the incline and my breath stalled.
She was in a pair of one of her overalls—and nothing else.
Not even a sports bra. These were a white billowy cotton instead of denim and dotted in the rainbow of colors she used.
Her banana yellow Crocs peeked from the overlong cuffed hem.
The hint of ridiculous always warred with her innate sexiness and made me crazy.
She had a cart beside her full of small mason jars of paint in bright neon colors. Fat brushes in various sizes were threaded through her fingers as she quickly swapped them to make different color choices on the old door full of windows in front of her.
Each pane exploded with a different pattern of flowers in impossibly bright colors.
Her creativity was as fascinating as the woman. So open and filled with the light she seemed to embody. I watched for a few minutes, unwilling to pull her out of that perfect zone I knew so well and missed like air in my lungs.
I was just about to leave when Mouse barked.
She turned, a paintbrush between her teeth, and a streak of pink on her cheek. The flash of pain in her eyes was quickly banked before she dumped the brushes in a cup of water on her cart. She took the one out of her mouth. “Hi.”
I jammed my hands into my pockets. “Hi.” Mouse nailed his nose into my thigh and sat beside me with a baleful stare. I cleared my throat. “That looks amazing.”
“Thanks. It’s for Sanctuary Floral.”
My boots were glued to the ground just beyond the threshold of her studio. Light filled every corner, gilding her hair as if it followed her around just because she was Phoebe.
“I missed you.” I hadn’t meant to blurt that out.
She crossed her arms. “I’ve been right here.” One eyebrow arched. “Did you think I was going to come looking for you?”
“No,” I muttered.
“Really? Because it seems like it from here.”
“Dammit, Phoebe. I fucked up.”
“Yes, you did.”
And she wasn’t going to give me any quarter. I didn’t deserve it, but I also didn’t know what the hell to do here. I wasn’t supposed to be in Haven for a relationship. I had one job. Finish the book. Period.
But looking at her with those dark eyes that saw too much, I realized there was a whole lot more between us. Not just the sex. Though that was exceptional—no, it was the fact that I looked forward to her smile.
Her laugh.
Her thoughtful conversation.
Hell, just cooking with her unfurled something in my chest that had been clamped shut for more years than I wanted to own up to. Even before what happened last year.
Success had been nice and I’d enjoyed all the trappings of it for a long time, but I’d never met anyone like Phoebe in all that time. She literally had a light inside of her that healed something inside of me. And I was fucking it up because I didn’t know how to trust myself.
It wasn’t even her.
I didn’t trust my own gauge when it came to people anymore.
I stepped over the threshold into her space. Into the light that I truly craved.
She dropped her arms to her sides. “You looking at me like that isn’t going to fix it, Dutch.”
“I know.” I cupped my hand along her cheek and into her hair.
Her gaze dropped to my lips. “You cut your beard.” Her paint dotted finger touched my chin. “Quite the jawline hiding under all that hair.”
“Like it?”
“Maybe. But I bet it would hurt if I slapped that face right now.”
“And I’d deserve it.” I lowered my head to brush her nose with mine, drawing in her unique honey scent. “But you aren’t going to do.”
“You don’t know me that well, Dutch.”
Not Atticus yet. “I know you’re unfathomably kind.” I sifted my fingers into her hair. “I know you worry about strangers. I know you adopted a dog without hesitation. I know you feel things bigger than anyone I’ve ever met.”
She backed up, out of my reach.
I dropped my arm and noticed the signs scattered around the room.
Chin up. Tits out. Onward.
The words were emblazoned on the chunk of driftwood in slashing script that seemed burned into the wood with delicate flowers painstakingly illustrated with one of her acrylic markers.
Kindness is my go-to. Fuck off is my wingman.
This one was on a broken piece of fence that had been cut to accentuate the frayed edges. Happy daisies and fluffy lavender making a sweet frame in direct opposition to the words.
But it was the skeletal hand painted on a stone the size of a small suitcase that stopped me in my tracks. The middle finger on full display with the words Sensitive Savage backed by wildflowers that told me exactly how much I’d hurt her.
I turned around until I spotted her near the windows.
“I’m sorry, Phoebe.”
She lifted her chin, her eyes dry and devoid of that sparkle that gave me so much comfort when I didn’t even realize it. Even if all these sarcastic signs framed in Phoebe’s art were because of me, I understood words. And the underlying message was as clear as neon in a dark room.
I was the dark room. If I was smart, I would push her out of the dark room and leave her to this space of sun and unfettered creativity.
I held out my hand.
She narrowed her eyes.
“Come with me.”
“Dutch—“
“Please.”