“How’d you hurt them?” His thumb slides between each knuckle in a soft caress, and I want to melt in the rocker at how good a touch can feel when the person doing the touching doesn’t intend to render pain.
“The porch steps.” I match his calm, quiet tone, breath catching when he reaches a sensitive spot. “I was mad, so I hit them.”
“Mhmm.” Warren eases his touch but doesn’t release me. “Why’d you hit them?”
“I…I had a birthday.”
“Is that right? When was it?” His face brightens before falling, like he realizes that a birthday might not be a happy occasion for me.
“I don’t know. Some time within the last month or so. I never knew the exact date.”
His fingers carefully brush over my knuckles. “I’m sorry, Mara.”
“It’s fine.”
“You say that, but I don’t think it is.” Warren’s kind tone takes away any sting from his words. “Birthdays are more than just one day out of many that makes you a year older. It’s a celebration of the moment you appeared in this world. No one should be forgotten, and I’m sorry that you were.”
There’s nothing for him to apologize for, but hearing him apologize twice brings on tears that I blink back. He truly sees me, doesn’t he? I’ve been forgotten and unwanted by everyone except this man.
His thumb resumes a gentle caress over the back of my hand. “I think you should choose your own birthday. Change it to a date that has meaning to you. And I swear to you that I’ll make sure all of the next ones are happy. Every single one of them. Emmaline’s, too.”
Our eyes catch, and I wonder if he can see all the words I want to tell him building up in the back of my throat. I want my next birthday to be tied to a happier memory. Instead of marking the years by the death of chrysanthemums, maybe it could be marked by the day Warren carefully and tenderly pieced my shattered soul back together. “I think today would be a good day,” I whisper through trembling lips.
Warren’s hold flexes. “So do I.”
For a moment, all is quiet but for Emmaline. But before the quiet can turn awkward, Warren grins a little. “Now just so you know, these hands are too pretty to go around hitting things like that. You wanna let out some anger or frustration,I’ll take you out to the back field and let you shoot my gun.”
“You’d let me hold your gun?” I glance to where the shotgun and his holster rest above the fireplace. One of those would have been extremely useful so many times in the last few years. But I’m no fool. I’ve never used one, so I’d have been just as likely to shoot myself as someone else.
“Oh, darlin’, you can hold my gun anytime.” Mischief dances over his face before he winces with his entire body. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it that way—well…yeah, damn it. I meant it. Sorry for my language. But not now. Unless you want to, I mean. But notrightnow because…Emmaline, you know, so…maybe later today or tomorrow. Not this.” He gestures furiously to his lower half. “The real gun. Damn it, they’re both real, but…”
I let him ramble on so I have a few moments to regain control of my emotions. Also because the redness creeping up his naked chest as he roughly rubs his neck tells me he just stepped right in it without meaning to. Just yesterday, I would have found the comparison of his gun to his cock both crude and offensive. But today, on this new day that is my chosen birthday, it’s actually rather charming. It also makes me wonder how many women he’s been with if even this makes him blush.
I wish I had a free hand to rub away the sudden ache in my chest. Perhaps it’s best not to think on that just yet. I finally interrupt him. “I’ve never shot a gun before. You’ll have to teach me.”
“I will. Using the one with actual bullets.” All hints of boyishness fade away until I once again see the man who stirs up a whirlwind of butterflies in my stomach and makes me wonder if I’m entirely wrong in my assessment of his experience with women.
Eyes never leaving mine, he slowly lowers his head.
It’s merely a press of lips to a hand, no matter what the wild pounding of my heart would have me believe. Nothing more, nothing less.
But itismore than that. So much more.
It’s a lingering caress from surprisingly soft lips, followed by a light scrape of his morning scruff as he moves from knuckle to knuckle. A grazing touch with no pain or punishment lying in wait behind it.
“There. No more hurting yourself, you hear? Because if you do, you should know I’m obliged to kiss it better.” The steadfast sincerity in Warren’s words, though murmured, slips into my ears and wraps around my heart in an embrace as warm as the rough hand still holding mine.
“Okay,” I whisper. At least I think I do. The tenderness of his touch makes it difficult to think clearly.
With a final slow brush of his lips, he stands and rakes his hand through his hair, tempting my gaze to follow along the lines of his muscles. “I’m gonna go get breakfast started, and I’ll get you when it’s ready.”
My hand still tingles after he leaves the room. No one has ever cared about me like he has. But since the very moment we met in the back of that cursed wagon, that’s all he’s ever done. From giving me and Emmaline the protection of his name, cooking for me, rocking me to sleep, and even now with his attempt to kiss away my pain.
I’m not gonna hurt you, but Iamgonna take care of you whether you like it or not.
At first, I hated the promise in his words. Hated the thought of belonging to a man for the rest of my life.
But now?
