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“Oh hell, did I wake you up?” I shake my head again as goldfish do synchronized backflips in my stomach. I can feel my cheeks burn as my gaze sweeps over his slouchy jeans and snug-ish white undershirt.
He brings a hand up and pushes at the curls over his left eye. His face is still that quiet neutral.
Silence stretches out between us. I swallow. He blinks, his eyes a little wider.
“No,” he says belatedly, as if he’s only just now processing. He shakes his head. His lips press together. God, his eyes are serious. Probably because he’s wondering what it will take to get rid of me. With one hand on the doorframe, he leans out slightly. “Do you need something?"
“Um, well…I just wanted to swing by and give you—” I hold out the Tupperware box. “Chocolate cake. It’s the traditional Southern new neighbor offering. Post-assault, of course.”
After a brief hint of confusion in his brows, his mouth lifts slightly on one side. I pass the cake container to him.
He blinks a few times down at it, then looks up at me. His face is serious and stark, as are his words when he says, “Thank you, Gwenna.”
I nod. Now go. My feet don’t move. “How are you doing? I’ve been thinking of you. In a totally non-stalker way.” Stalker.
His eyes widen. Is that supposed to be an answer? My hand lifts of its own accord. “Can I see it? Does it look okay?”
He leans his head down. I step closer and push a few curls aside with my unsteady fingers.
“Oh…yeah. It does look like it’s healing.”
He lifts his head. He smiles, but it looks strained. Or maybe tired. I think of how our last encounter ended and I draw a deep breath of chilly air.
“I wanted to say one thing…about the other day. That is: my dad was in the Army. I have a lot of respect for combat vets. Honestly. I just act like a dolt around you. I was tactless and I’m sorry.”
“I don’t think I’d say that.” He looks down at his left arm, where a watch would be. When he looks back up, his face looks pained. “So your father. Army?”
Awkward. He’s trying to make small talk, but he definitely seems uncomfortable now.
I nod. “He was a bomb squad guy.” My eyes tear up with zero notice, and I want to give myself a throat-punch.
He nods slowly, as if he’s taking that in. “Great guys. He still active duty?”
I swallow, trying desperately to keep my eyes dry. “He passed away last November,” I manage with a stiff spine.
I’m puzzled when he turns away from me and takes a step inside. A moment later, he turns back, empty-handed, and then surprises me by stepping out onto the porch.
I eye his plain white undershirt, loose jeans, and bare feet. “Don’t come out here. It’s cold.” I fold my arms over my chest in demonstration.
He smirks. “It’s not that cold.”
“To me it is.” I hug myself.
It’s hard not to be aware of how attractive he is when he’s standing right in front of me. Attractive, and massive, too. I wonder how long he works out every day.
“You want a jacket?” he asks.
What is this? I swallow. I’m supposed to say, I need to go now, but the words get stuck.
I’m looking up at him like a pilgrim at a shrine. I fell him step in closer, then his arm comes up around my back.
“Thanks for the cake,” he says.
I feel his eyes on me, the hard warmth of his body against mine. I stand there holding my breath, waiting for him to let go of me so my heart can resume beating—but he doesn’t. He just stands beside me, his big arm around me, li
ke we’re good friends.
I try and fail to breathe. My stomach sags into my knees.
