Chapter 25
Blythe was asleep, but he wasn’t. The day had been perfect. She took notes, watched what he did, met all his clients, and was a ray of sunshine the entire time. He was whipped—fucking hog tied and dragging behind the horse she was riding. Not an ounce of motivation lived inside him to keep putting together the apartment she was supposed to live in. He knew her reasons, even if she didn’t think he did.
She was scared.
It wasn’t about anything but fear, and he knew he had to break down her walls to get to her. He was building trust, and hopefully the game of cat and mouse he was playing with her was helping with that. It was edging him, though, every damn time he touched her and backed away. He’d rather be put on a bronco and survive the eight seconds it took to hear a buzzer than deliberately tease himself this way. It was torture. Beautiful, delicious, fucking torture.
At least she was safe. If it took years to win her heart, at least she was safe for now. She was under his nose and he felt good about it. He’d wait ten lifetimes if that's what it took, but he sure hoped not.
The apartment was coming along nicely. He didn’t have as much time as he would’ve liked each day to work on it, but he shoved it in the cracks. Early mornings and late nights. He originally told Blythe it would only be a couple more weeks, but the end of his estimated time of completion was on the horizon—like, two more days on the horizon—and he was going to have to break it to her that it wouldn’t be done.
She was still being stiff about it. She wanted her own place. And every time she mentioned it, he fought the uncontrollable urge to point his finger and tell her exactly where her place was. It was right there, with him, in the same house, in the same room, in the same bed—every day and every night for the rest of her damn life .
She was determined, though.
She’d had a fancy job, her douche bag fiancé, and her independence back in Chicago. He couldn’t squash what was left of that now. She pretended like what happened didn’t do anything to her, but she was lying to herself and everyone else. He saw the damage that had been done, and he was slowly trying to patch it up and repair it all.
Since she moved in with him, he’d been able to see her clearer every day. She shared more of her story with him, let her emotions sneak through the cracks of her brokenness, and he got to see her in a more vulnerable state. It was a privilege to be the one who got to witness her raw—but it wasn’t always easy. He listened and supported when what he really wanted to do was fly to Illinois, find the bastard who hurt her, and kick his ass. He wanted to take her to his bedroom and do things to her that would make her forget everything and everyone that hurt her before she knew him.
She’d caught onto the paperwork side of things quickly and was an amazing book keeper. She managed his appointments and kept his schedule in line. It was the most free he’d felt in years. His phone wasn’t always ringing because he’d given all his clients the new work number for the line he’d added to his phone plan. Blythe took care of it all. She really was incredible.
Max saw her as an easy target because of her sweetness and her naiveté, but Justin saw her as someone who was untainted by life. Someone who had a future that was wide open. Someone who was barely at the beginning, so secure in herself and what she brought to the table…but also someone who trusted a little too easily, then simply fell into a bad relationship in the process. One that obliterated a huge chunk of her identity.
Somewhere between Chicago and Montana she’d lost herself.
It was no wonder. Anyone in her shoes would’ve second guessed their decisions after what that schmuck did to her. Justin knew asking her to marry him right now was out of the question. She wasn’t ready. He knew trying to convince her to officially move in with him was off the table, too. So, he would continue working on the apartment—even if it wasn’t what he wanted.
“Grey, lighter grey, or brownish grey walls?” Blythe was holding three different colored squares up against the sheetrock. Justin laughed as he stood, walking toward the woman he already loved with a new fiber of his being every day that he spent with her. He was still waiting for the perfect moment to tell her that, too—but the woman was gun-shy, and he’d rather keep her than risk the potential consequences.
“Sugar, you could paint these walls flamingo pink, and I’d still think it was the coziest room I’ve ever been in.” His shoulder leaned against the wall she was standing in front of, his smile kind and reassuring as he gazed at her. She twisted her lips and looked at the swatches another few seconds before making her decision.
“Brownish grey! Or whatever this color is actually called.” She brought the tiny cardboard square to her nose and read,“Plum Taupe? Wouldn’t have guessed that.” She giggled and handed it to Justin. He told her they would run into town and get all of the paint they needed later.
Blythe turned to face him, her dusty green eyes were soft and made him suddenly feel even more guilty than he already did about telling her. He cleared his throat.
“The uh—this place isn’t going to be finished in the next two days…maybe not even in the next two weeks. I’m sorry. I just haven’t had?—”
“Justin, I can see that.” Her voice was tender and reassuring. “I’m not dumb. I know it’s going to take longer, and that’s okay. I’m happy to keep putting it together and create this with you.”
Her hands slid into his, and her fingers threaded through each crack just above his palms.
“So, you don’t mind staying in the house with me a little longer then?” His tone fluctuated, ending in a question mark.
“No, cowboy…I don’t.”
He wanted to scream, listening to her tell him she understood and didn’t mind…because he fucking did mind. She was turning into a roommate. He loved their flirty banter and wrapping her up in his arms and legs on the couch. Although, he had a love-hate relationship with her every time she edged him to insanity then left him hard and desperate when it was all over. He was a thirty year old man and, fuck, he wanted her. He wanted her in all the ways a man wants and needs a woman. He just didn’t know how to bridge the stupid gap that was gapping the hell out of the situation in front of him. All he could do was put his arms around her, rest his chin on her head, and say, “I’m glad.”