Page 7 of Fight from the Heart

Crystal snowflakes. Frozen eyelashes. A tongue stuck on a cold pole.

I need to get myself together.

Testing the water, I stopper the tub and stand back. Pam watches me, her head leaning back, face upward like she wants to tell me a secret. She’s worn that expression many times in the past, and I’ve always wondered what her thoughts are. What won’t she tell me?

“When was the last time you ate?” I question instead, noticing her pale coloring. She shrugs. “What would you like to eat?”

She chuckles, shaking her head.

“You don’t think I can cook?” I question.

“I know you can’t, remember? Mrs. White and then Ethan.”

Ah, Ethan Scott, my former in-home chef who fell in love with my stepsister. It was kind of nice having another man around the house, even if I was only present for a week, and he was here for five before Ella ran off. I shake my head at the thought of my sister and Ethan. It’s not that I don’t like the idea of them as a couple. I hate how they haven’t found their way back to one another yet. For her sake, and I suppose his, I hope it happens soon.

As for Mrs. White, that cougar-driven hussy hit on me more times than a desperate housewife on a vacation in Vegas. Ella, my stepsister, did everything she could to chase her away, and even though Mrs. White was a good cook, I’d been grateful. A woman nearly fifteen years my senior serving me dinner in her sheer lingerie was too much for me. It might be another guy’s thing, going for the older woman, but not mine. It’s almost laughable that I’d been cougared at forty. Isn’t it supposed to be a forty-year-old woman going for a younger man, not someone fifty-five, reminding me of my mother hitting on me? Like my mother, the woman who ran off and left her kid so she could screw half of Los Angeles before I was even ten. Oh wait, she did that while she was still living in our home.

I realize the hypocrisy of my statement as Mandi is some thirteen years younger than me.

“Yeah, well, I can cook,” I defend, wiping away thoughts of my wayward mother and my equally frustrating former girlfriend.

“Frozen pizza.” Pam snorts.

“It encompasses the four food groups. Whole grains, vegetables, protein, and dairy.” I tick off the categories on my fingers while she skeptically looks at me.

“Except the kind you eat is made from enriched white flour, has processed cheese, probably uses a tomato-paste substitute, and the meat product is questionable.” Her eyes roam down my body, doing nothing to calm its already stiff status, and adds, “I don’t know how you look like you do when you eat that shit . . . I mean, stuff.”

Let it be noted, Pam Carter just swore, and she complimented me. I’m not making that up.

“You think I have a nice body?” I tease. Her face heats to this pretty pink shade I’ve seen a few times on those cheeks.

“You know you do,” she says, her voice lowering as her gaze drops to her lap.

“Maybe, but I’d like to hear more about it from you. What exactly do you think is nice on my body?” Placing my hands on my hips, I turn my head, giving her the side of my face, and wait. A minute passes. When I glance back at her, a hand covers her mouth.

“Are you laughing at me?” She looks like she wants to burst out in giggles.

What’s wrong with me? I work out hard. I have a six-pack that could quench your thirst. I’ve got the little hip dip that narrows over my pelvis and points at my dick. She can’t see that part of me, but still.

“You look ridiculous like that,” she states, taking in my pose. “Don’t do that again.” She’s teasing, but my hands fall to fists at my sides. I get it. She isn’t attracted to me. Despite the hard core of my body, it’s not a body she wants.

“Whatever,” I say, blowing off the hurt inside. I’m not a sensitive guy. Over the years, I’ve made my skin tough enough you could bounce a penny off me. Nothing penetrates me like it did when I was a kid.

Her shoulders fall, and I note the tub is almost full.

“Your forearms are your best feature,” she says, surprising me. I glance at my arms, one covered in tattoos, the other clean. “You’re strong, but you’re also gentle, even if you don’t want to admit it. You have serious arm porn.”

“Arm porn?” I choke out when I peer over at her. Her gaze leaps to my eyes.

“And your eyes. They’re this deep, rich dark color like the sky at midnight, and when you laugh, pinpricks dance in them like shining stars.”

I . . . what?

“They also look like they hold a great secret. Like something is locked behind the dungeon door, and I’ve often wondered what’s beyond them besides the creativity of your stories.”

Holy . . . nope. Not going there. There is no way Pam can ever know my secrets. The horrors in my memories. The scenes that torture me.

“That sounds a bit too romantic,” I mock, my voice rougher than necessary.