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Maybe your brain needs a break from the dark and twisted. Have you thought about writing something different?
I laid my head down on my folded hands and groaned. “Every fucking day,” I mumbled.
“Talking to yourself. Not a good sign.”
At the sound of Ian’s voice, I snapped back up, my hair sliding out of its ponytail holder. He was holding a cup of coffee and wearing a smirk on his face that immediately lightened the tight pressure in my chest.
“It’s not,” I said. I wrenched my hair back and lifted my chin at the bench opposite of me. “What are you doing here? Figured you’d be building someone’s dream home until after dinner.”
As he slid his big body into the seat, I took a moment to study him again now that the shock of his presence had worn off.
Sort of worn off.
In the years I’d been away, Ian had grown himself into a man. The lanky boy from high school was long gone, and in his place was a tall, broad specimen of mountain man goodness. Gawd, he should be on a magazine cover somewhere.
Go hike mountains and chop down trees and build things and you too can look like me.
That would be the headline, and men everywhere would do exactly as he commanded because he was a veritable poster child for testosterone and conventional masculinity.
Not that there was anything wrong with unconventional masculinity. I’d dated a couple of guys who were prettier than me, but Ian was the kind of man who would fit right under the dictionary definition for manly man.
He took a slow sip of his coffee, eyeing me over the rim.
“What?” I asked.
“You’re the one staring.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, well, I’m still getting used to your face. It’s not the same, you know. Covered in copious amounts of hair and all.”
He raised a hand—that was big and strong-looking too—and scratched at the dark, trimmed beard covering his jaw. “Not a fan, are you?”
“I never said that,” I demurred. “Just remembering how you used to shave your single piece of facial hair in tenth grade because you liked to pretend you’d get stubble if you didn’t.”
“I had more than a single piece,” he shot back. “Besides, you were stuffing your bra with paper towel when I was pretending to shave, so I don’t think you’re in any position to judge.”
“Touché.” I sighed, then patted my chest. “Thanks to the wonders of childbirth and the fifteen pounds I never quite lost, I have the cleavage I always dreamed of. No paper towel necessary.”
Ian’s dark eyes never dropped from my face. What a good boy.
“Seriously, though,” I said. “What are you doing here?”
“I had to pick something up from the hardware store. Saw you pounding your head on the table through the window and decided to step in before you concussed yourself.”
I grinned. “So thoughtful. Nice to see you haven’t lost that.”
“Only with you.” He said it so quietly, but I heard him loud and clear, and it sent a warm, gooey wave of happy through my bones. Ian knew I heard it too, his eyes darting away after a long moment.
“How’s Sheila?” I asked quietly.
His jaw did this clenching motion before he answered, and a brief desolate look flashed through his eyes, there and gone in a blink.
“She’s doing okay. Keeps busy, talks to the girls a lot.” His big hands fiddled with the coffee in front of him, his gaze locked on the surface of the table.
“And you?”
This question was phrased a bit more tentatively. Maybe because everything about this body language screamed don’t come any closer. But there was no way I wasn’t going to ask.
There was a loaded pause before he answered, his eyes locking on mine briefly before he glanced away again. “I’m fine.”
