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“C’mon.” I step toward her, hand out. “Just for a few minutes.”
What are you doing?
I close the distance between us, all thoughts silenced by the rush of blood between my ears and my loud heartbeat. Distantly, I hear myself say, “I want to ask you something.”
“What?”
“About business property. In downtown Gatlinburg,” I lie.
Her brows lift, and she turns a little more toward me. “You’re buying something in town?”
I nod. I can feel the pressure in my chest ease as I watch her face…the interest on it. Words pour from my mouth, unplanned and somehow also calculated. “I’m opening a martial arts place, I think. If I can find a good storefront.”
I watch her frown, then swallow. She looks stricken. “Oh. I— didn’t know.”
“It’s a new idea,” I blather—even though it’s not. It was always an option I’d considered, part of the larger plan to get her taken care of. “I don’t know the area, but I’ve looked at a few places. I was hoping you could take a look at a few of the listings and share your thoughts.”
Her brows draw even more tightly together. “Right now?”
I nod, and feel the fist just under my throat loosen. “I’m going tomorrow to see more.”
She looks at me, then quickly down, licking her lips. “Okay. I guess that would work.”
SEVEN
Gwenna
He looks relieved for a long moment, and then puzzled. Maybe I’m giving him a wide-eyed look, because right then he laughs—that chuckle I love, his striking face gone soft and gentle. “Gwenna…I won’t bite you.”
He holds his hand out. “Come with me.”
I look down at his hand. My body starts to sing, and a scared kind of anger simmers in my chest. “You know…you don’t owe me anything. Like…hanging out. From my angle, things are fine between us.” I take a small step back, away from his hand, and struggle for something to tack on. Something about being neighbors. But I can’t think of anything to say to frame our experience in significance.
We sparred. We messed around one night. The end.
It’s a painful almost.
I shake my head and look back toward the door. I can’t even trust myself to sit on the couch with him. He could spread me on the floor right now and I would let h
im have me. I have never, ever felt this way—and I’m not sure I like it anymore.
The dazed pain in his eyes is enough to make me take another step back.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
He shakes his head. His eyes squeeze shut. He bows his head and rubs his forehead with his fingers, letting out a long, unsteady breath.
“I messed things up.” His eyes flash briefly up to mine, but they sink quickly to the floor.
“What do you mean?” My stomach feels like someone turned it inside out.
He blows another long breath out and shakes his head again. Through the barrier of his fingers, I can see his eyes are shut.
He turns away from me. I watch his shoulders rise and fall…and rise…and fall. He walks over to the couch and puts his hands on the spine, letting his head hang in between his outstretched arms.
I messed things up. So…he cares? Is that what that means? My heart races. I step closer to him. Whether I’m responding to his obvious distress or creeping closer because I want to be near him—for my own selfish purposes—I can’t be sure.
When I get within arms’ reach, he turns around, propping his hips against the couch’s spine. His eyes on mine are gravely serious. His face is tense.
