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“He felt helpless,” Shane said quietly.
“He did. And by refusing to give him a name, I was compounding his helplessness. I wasn’t letting him slay the dragon. It caused a rift. A big one.”
“You bridged it?”
She swallowed hard. “We did. Eventually. I earned his trust again, not just as a daughter, but as a person. Plus, I got older, and less in need of protection. He wasn’t on the hook for my safety and well-being anymore.”
“Yeah. That’s why he comes over to change your furnace filter, and you go to dinner every Sunday.”
“Little gestures,” she conceded, but his observation made her smile. His lips curved, too, lifting a degree higher on one side than the other in a sardonic, and ridiculously sexy, grin.
Then those lips straightened, and his gaze roamed her face before settling on her eyes with a steadfast resolve. “I’m going to earn your trust back, Sinclair.”
…
Thick black lashes curtained Sinclair’s eyes, but her lips tightened briefly in a fleeting frown. “There you go, talking in the future again.” She leaned forward in her chair, resting her elbow on his shoulder as she brought her face closer to his. “We don’t have a good track record for getting the future to play out the way we want. I prefer to concentrate on the here and now. Take this opportunity to work the leftover chemistry out of our systems.”
Then her lips moved over his, warm and persuasive. Distracting, but no so much so he didn’t recognize her effort to hijack the conversation and steer it away from plans… trust…anything that required her to rely on him. He wasn’t going to let her do it. And she didn’t really want him to, or he wouldn’t be sitting here. She wouldn’t have let him into the place she considered her fortress and sanctuary if all she sought was a clear conscience and a closure fuck. No, sir. This was a test. One he needed to pass…his thoughts drifted south as her hand slid purposefully up his inseam…or die trying.
Since passing meant demonstrating there was more between them than leftover chemistry, he caught those wayward fingers before they reached their destination. Being denied surprised her enough to have her abandoning the kiss and leveling an exasperated look at him. Oh, yeah, she wasn’t accustomed to anyone putting on the brakes. He lifted her hand to his mouth, and bit the side of her thumb. “I’m not that easy. You can’t just pour me a drink and grab my dick.”
Her dark brows shot up. “Since when?”
“Since now. My dick. My rules. Show me around first.”
Her brows came down, low enough to carve a little notch of consternation between them. “Another tour? I just downed three shots, Shane. I can’t drive anywhere.”
“Show me around here,” he clarified then stood and pulled her to her feet. On his own, he crossed to the opposite end of the big, open room, where a drafting table and swiveling stool positioned beneath a skylight set off her studio space. Framed sketches of rings, necklaces, and other adornments decorated the walls, and he found himself appreciating the contrast of sparkling sophistication against the unpretentious backdrop of knotted boards. The contradiction offered a perfect reflection of the woman herself. Because she remained by the table, looking at him like he was full of shit, he added, “Come on. Let’s see this woodpile you’re so attached to.”
She stared at him a second longer, trying to
figure his game. Finally, she shrugged and crossed to him. “As I mentioned before, it’s a work in progress.”
And it was, but by the time she’d shown him around the main level, with its high ceilings and open layout, he could see the work she’d already done and visualize the end product. Her running commentary about walls becoming windows, original hand-hewn ceiling beams, and reclaimed floors helped. Admittedly, he wasn’t a hearth-and-home kind of guy—he didn’t, technically, have either—but by the time she finished showing him around the main floor, he could understand what she saw in hers. Standing for over a century and a half gave scarred boards and worn stone an honest integrity a newer build simply couldn’t capture, but those walls also whispered with potential.
“When I get my permits,” she said and gestured toward an old-fashioned spiral staircase fanning up to what had once been the hayloft, “I’ll expand the upper level.”
Yeah, “when,” not “if.” Clearly, she refused to contemplate any other outcome.
“Right now, there’s only my bedroom, and a small bathroom. Anyway”—she faced him and did a little flourish with her hands—“that’s it. The grand tour.”
“You’re not going to show me your bedroom?”
Her expression turned guarded, which gave him his answer before she responded. She really wasn’t planning to let him see the inner sanctum—where she slept, and dreamed. Predictable, considering she didn’t trust him, but even so, disappointment put a dull ache in his chest.
“No man who calls my home a woodpile gets to see my bedroom.”
“That’s awfully strict.” He stepped closer.
Her chin lifted. “My bedroom, my rules.”
He moved closer, backing her up until the heels of her boots hit the first stair. Then he lowered his mouth to her ear. “Has any man seen your bedroom?”
“That’s none of your business.”
So, no. His pulse kicked up. “What’s the matter? You got something up there you don’t want me to see? Were you maybe thinking of me this morning, and left your bed a wreck and a personal item on your nightstand?”
“Get over yourself,” she tossed back, but she said it on a laugh, so he pressed forward, forcing her up a stair.
