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All the way from town I’ve rehearsed the most scathing lines I could think of to put him in his place. Now, with him like this, the lines have morphed into jelly, much like my legs. “You look like you need help with that.”
Really? Is that all I can say?
“Back you are.” He gestures with his head for me to come in closer. “Why?”
“Because you’re basically screwed without me.” I cross my arms over my chest and wait for him to challenge that statement.
He smirks and then shoots me the most devastatingly gorgeous smile, the first I’ve seen since my arrival. “Screwed I am. Probably.”
I swallow. I can’t let that smile get to me. Or that chest. Or those blue eyes that stare straight into me. “And I’m not going to have any more bullshittery from you. I’ll give you two weeks’ probation and then I’ll decide whether I stay or go. So it’s up to you to perform.”
His eyes widen at this, and a triumphant swell rises through me.
“We can start with the basics,” I continue, when he says nothing. “We need some serious ground rules here, otherwise this isn’t going to work.”
He shrugs and puts his hands on his hips, giving me a full view of his sculpted pecs and the gathering of hair that disappears into his jeans. His whole stance says Go on. Gimme all your rules. Gimme probation time. Let’s see who caves in first. As I meet his gaze head on, a whole layer of trouble I didn’t envision when I drove here with such determination opens up to me as everything in my lower belly tightens. No-no-no. That isn’t going to happen.
“Get dressed, and if you pull another stunt like this morning—”
“For that, I owe you. Early, they were.” He reaches for his T-shirt where it’s hanging over the chair by my laptop.
I look away, not wanting to watch him pull that T-shirt on because that’s going to involve some muscles rippling.
“You chose me. How exactly, I don’t know, but that’s not my problem. If you have an issue with me being a woman, you need to tell me right now so that I can leave and let you rot here, because I won’t put up with that sexist bullshit for the next six weeks.”
There, that’s about all I had to say.
His shirt is back on, and I feel a deflated bit of comfort that my eyes no longer need to submit to his naked chest’s magnetic pull.
“N-no. No.” He steps up to me, frowning. “Properly, I want to do this. Right, I want to do it. Screw-ups, I make, a-all the time.”
I have no clue why he can’t talk straight. We haven’t even started working together and communication in this type of job, in any job, is key. Probation is the best idea I’ve had yet. Either the communication starts flowing right now, or I’m gone tomorrow. Screw two weeks. “We’re supposed to be a team, but you missed that part. I can’t work with you if you’re going to be all stoic and uncommunicative.” I take a deep breath, “And for my sake, stop talking like freaking Yoda, otherwise I’m leaving right now.”
He runs his thumb along his bottom lip, his eyes staring deep into mine, unnerving me completely. The quiet between us drags on for a good minute as we take our staring contest to the next level.
“F-fine. Talk, I will.” He frowns and opens and closes his mouth. Then one deep inhale. “I s-s-stutter when I’m s-s-stressed or sh-sh-shocked and w-with s-s-strangers. A technique. Yoda talk. I use to s-s-speak around the r-r-roll of b-b-barbed wire in my head.”
He swallows and I force myself to hold his gaze, taking in the shock of his words.
“Robot talk also works, but that annoys the living crap out of me too,” he says perfectly, but mechanically. “Be-being s-stoned or d-d-drunk also helps like last night, but I g-g-got into s-s-serious trouble for being s-s-stoned and b-b-being a drunk is…” He trails off and glances away. “It’s n-n-not a p-p-permanent solution. L-l-last night was the f-f-first time I d-d-drank so much in ye-ye-years. About this morning, I’m sorry. Screw-ups, my specialty.”
“I—”
He drags a hand through his hair and sighs. “Yo-yo-you’ll g-g-give me a f-f-few days and I’ll be b-b-better. Stranger, you’ll be no more. P-probation? B-b-brilliant idea.” With that he turns to the desk and picks up a parchment-wrapped sandwich and bottle of juice. “Lunch, for you.”
For the first time in my life, I’m at a loss for words. Raiden packed me lunch. He knew I’d be coming back and not only for my laptop. That wouldn’t have warranted a sandwich.
Unlike his brother, Raiden didn’t doubt my grit. I have no clue what to make of that.
But this beautiful, creative man stutters like there’s no tomorrow and at the thought, tears close up my throat and I have to turn away.
10
RAIDEN
What doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger. I’d like to shrivel up and die right now, but apparently opening up about my speech impediment some eighteen hours too late hasn’t killed me.
At twenty-nine I should be over it, and I try my best to be, but I’m not. The shrink and I stopped short of going down the particular mineshaft of my stutter’s origins. I didn’t have the energy to dig anymore and had to take a break. I’m not sure a year counts as ‘a break’ anymore.
