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 wordsSensitive Savagebacked 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. Evenif 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.”
