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“I came to give your jacket back.”
I close my eyes—because really, what the hell was I thinking, coming over here like this?
When I open them, I find him looking at me with his head tilted slightly to one side, his striking features schooled into a kind and understanding look. The one that says whatever’s going on with me, he wants to know about it.
“Why don’t you come in?” he asks after a moment.
He beckons me toward the door, then steps into the house. For a moment, I debate following, but of course I have no choice. I feel like I can’t breathe, but damned if I don’t follow him right in. I step over to the island at the center of the kitchen, where he’s set my wine bottle, and I look from it to his face.
“You should have some.”
“Would you like that?” His eyes cling to mine—so intense I feel almost hypnotized.
I nod, still holding his gaze. I have this distant urge to say more, but my brain and my mouth can’t seem to sync up.
Barrett arches his brows in answer, then turns to get two wine glasses out of a cabinet. He sets them by the wine bottle, then turns his back to me again.
I’m aware, as I watch the gorgeous ripple of his back and shoulder muscles, that even though I can’t seem to resist his presence, I can still have options. I was once an actress, after all. So I can play this straight, and act the way I feel, and let him see me—the real me, with all my soft spots. Or I can build a wall and let him see me climb behind it—an option I realize isn’t good because it wou
ld show how much I care.
And I do care, I realize as he walks around the island, opening and closing various drawers. Being in his presence means looking to him, and then away, and back to him, and then away again; every time my eyes land on him anew, my poor heart bursts like a Roman Candle. The feeling is intense. Proprietary. And so, so, so misplaced.
I take a deep breath as he sifts through another drawer, and I decide I’ll aim for Gwenna Lite. I’ll try to act the same way I always have, but from a couple of steps back.
You can do that.
I stare at the ink on his shoulders, trying on the idea of Barrett as my friend. It doesn’t fit. It doesn’t fit because I’m bursting out of it.
He turns back to the island with a corkscrew and a funny, flat-lipped look for me. I can’t quite interpret it. As he grabs the wine bottle with his left hand, hugging it against his chest, and works the corkscrew with his right, I watch his face, but only for a long second. The calculation in that move makes me aware my buzz is fading.
I look away from him, out at the living room, where I notice there’s a fire cracking in the big, stone fireplace. I wonder what he did tonight. If it was good. I imagine weeks and months and years of him living next door. Barrett—my friend.
And I realize it was bullshit—me thinking we could just be friends. This is illogical. Intense. Obsession. All the crazy, reckless instalove I thought was for other people… Nope. I guess it’s like a lightning strike. Hits hard and fast, and other than the matter of where I place myself—in line of that violent streak or out—there’s nothing I can do about it.
My stomach twists and I try not to watch his arms move as he works the cork out of the bottle.
I exhale slowly. I’m not proud of my reaction to him, but now at least I can be honest with myself. I need to try to stay away until my feelings wane.
I feel his gaze on my face and I shift my eyes back to his. Steady, Gwenna. I manage it: a steady, neutral look; just friends. I’m holding my breath, waiting for his gaze to shift, to stop pouring electricity through me, but instead his eyes seem to get hung up with mine. Heat races over my face, and when I just can’t take it anymore, I jerk my gaze away.
* * *
Barrett
It’s taking me forever to get the cork out of the bottle. Because my fucking hands are shaking. Fuck me.
One minute I was ranging around the living room, stoking the fire, chasing my racing thoughts, trying to decide whether to clean my McMillan TAC .338 or go outside and have one of the Marlboros I found under an ice pack in the freezer. The next second, I hear heavy footfall through the partially open kitchen window and I look out and see her.
Gwenna in my jacket. Gwenna with a goddamned bottle of wine.
The house hasn’t closed. It’s not time to make my move. I have nothing for her, nothing but a bunch of shit she doesn’t need or deserve. So you might think I’d exercise intelligence. Back up my own decision to take a big step back by not answering the door.
Instead, I heard her footsteps on the porch and started sweating. My head pounded. My throat stung and tightened, and although I circled the couch two times before I went to her, I found I didn’t have the willpower for three.
So there is Gwenna. Gwen with wine. Here she is in my kitchen, swallowed by my jacket, glassy-eyed from drinking whatever I could smell on her before she came inside. Her cheeks are tinged with pink, the way they always seem to be, and when she thinks I’m not looking, she’s chewing on her lower lip.
Troubled. Plain enough to see.
