Chapter Thirty-One
brEANNA
BEFORE I even made it to work, Connor’s name appears on the screen in my dash, interrupting the streaming music connected to my phone. I tap the screen. “Hey, Connor.”
“Good morning, Breanna. Is this a good time to talk?”
“It is. I’m driving to work.”
“Good.” I hear papers rattling in the background. “I wonder if you could meet me at the house this morning. I need to get your okay on a couple of things before I move forward.”
“Sure. Give me about an hour?”
“Sounds good.” He disconnects the call before I tap the screen.
It takes a little longer than an hour to get settled at the hospital and go through the morning checklist with Leslie before I can break away. When I step outside, the dark clouds and soft thunder rumbling overhead make me wonder if I should drive the short distance or if it’s safe to walk.
I decide to walk. When I get around the corner of the building, I see Mato’s truck down the hill in front of the house, sitting next to Connor’s. Why is Mato there?
His words to me when I asked him that question just two weeks ago come to mind: I will always help you when you need help.
A small spark of hope blinks in my chest like a match in the dark. Will he? A thought that has been tapping against every defense I have flashes in that light; am I holding something against the person he is now that a kid did ten years ago?
Shaking my head, I ignore all of it and trek through weeds that I really need to cut back since it seems like I’ve walked through them more than I ever thought I would.
Connor and Mato are in the kitchen like they belong there, and they both turn to me as I walk in.
Mato is in his ranch clothes, his hair pulled back in a tie, and dust and hay on his wide shoulders.
He must have come right from the ranch. Without consciously thinking of it, my eyes find his first, and then I flick them to Connor.
“Hey, Conner.”
There are blueprints across the dusty laminate kitchen counter, my small tub of spackle weighing down one curled edge and a hammer on the other edge.
Connor steps back a step to make room for me to stand in front of them, and I take the space with Mato to my other side. “Since we’ve got the septic system layout almost complete, I want to confirm the inside water lines with you.”
Connor points out where the new bathrooms will be and the kitchen sink, and we talk about where I want everything before they cut into the walls. It’s coming together, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel like a kid at Christmas.
Mato doesn’t say anything. He stands behind me with his arms crossed, looking at the plans and listening.
When he’s satisfied with all my answers, Connor folds up his measurements and says they’ll start working on them as soon as the septic system is done. Mato stays inside as I walk to the big window in the breakfast area and look across the trees.
It’s quiet.
I should have walked out behind Connor. Instead, I step on the stepladder I used when I was fixing the wood rot a few weeks ago and look at my work. I run my thumb across the spot, making a mental note that I need to sand the rough edges.
"It held," I say. "The spackle."
He steps next to me, close enough that I can feel his warmth. “Course it did.”
The clouds outside are blocking the sun’s rays that would usually light up the different colors inside the little frames. I keep my eyes on it because looking at the window is safer than looking at him.
Letting my eyes drift over the semi-circle of the stained glass, I sigh. “When I first bought this house, I used to imagine sitting right here, in the morning, drinking a cup of coffee with the sunrise.”
He turns his head and I can feel his eyes on my profile. “Used to?”
I realize I said too much. I don’t know how to answer him because the truth is that the picture had changed. In the past few weeks, he silently snuck into the picture in my head, and it terrified me more than being alone.
“Bre.”
His voice is low and soothing, and I make the mistake of looking at him.
He is closer than I thought, his dark eyes moving over my face, reading me like he used to.
He lifts his hand and brushes my cheek with the backs of his knuckles, the smell of hay on his shirt filling my nose, and pushes a curl behind my ear.
The touch is soft and warm and swirls through my system like a drug all the way to my feet.
I don’t pull away. I should. Instead, I stay right where I am, my heart beating fast, and let him tuck my hair away. His hand stays, his palm just barely cradling my jaw, and he rests his thumb at the corner of my mouth.
His eyes drop to my lips, and he leans in.
And God help me, I lean too. Maybe an inch, or maybe less. But enough that I can feel the warmth of his breath. It feels right, and ten years of walls shake around me like an earthquake.
And then I’ll let myself believe in it, in him. And then he’ll be gone, and there won’t be enough of me to put back together again.
I turn my head.
His lips land at the edge of my cheekbone instead, soft and warm. I feel him go still, but he keeps his hand on my jaw and presses the almost-kiss to my cheek. Lingering for seconds, he understands, but he doesn’t push. He never pushes.
Then, as if it never happened, he steps back, his hand falling to his side. I miss his warmth, but I keep my gaze averted.
“I have to get back to work.” My voice comes out wrong; it doesn’t sound convincing even to me.
“I know.” He slides his hands in his pockets like the floor didn’t just tilt under me.
After I lock up, we walk side by side to his truck, and I turn to tell him I’ll see him later tonight and see the way he’s looking at me.
I see it. The way he used to look at me before, the love and affection that used to flow between us so easily.
Behind that is patience, silent and steady as the water in the stream, waiting me out. Like he knows he’ll win.
I don’t say anything, but give him a small smile before I turn to walk back up the hill. My thoughts spin and contradict each other at the speed of light, and the hell of it is that I think I want him to win.