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Unfortunately, the truth was my writing wasn’t “going.” While it wasn’t a complete failure, the words weren’t flowing as easily as they should. My stress over it only made the writer’s block worse.
I now had more firewood than I’d ever need for a long time because I had gotten hyper-focused on splitting wood when I needed to focus on my writing instead. I found myself using it as a form of therapy, as well as a way to release my pent-up rage because life was so damn unfair.
But that needed to change since the book wouldn’t write itself, as much as I wished it could.
I stared at the man before me. If we were friends, he’d be the perfect person to bounce off ideas. The same way I used to do with Thomas.
That could be a reason why I was struggling so much to write. My partner, whose opinion and introspect I valued, even though he wasn’t a writer, was gone. He not only left a hole in my heart but one in my creative process, too.
Even so, Rett and I weren’t friends and my treatment of him in the past had pretty much guaranteed we wouldn’t be in the future. When he’d been kind, I hadn’t. I had no one to blame but myself.
Nothing new.
Could I make an effort to fix that? Possibly, but that might open the door to him witnessing just how messed up I was. I wasn’t ready to allow anyone to dig that deep.
“It’s coming along,” I lied.
With the look he shot me, it was obvious he didn’t believe me. “How many cords of firewood do you now have?”
Even though I had no idea how much a cord of wood was, I answered, “Plenty.”
He nodded, his expression back to being unreadable. “If you want, Harry will buy some from you to sell to the people who come to the area to camp, fish or hunt. He sells firewood in small bundles. It would be a win-win situation for the two of you.”
Why was I getting the feeling this man, one I only met recently, knew me better than he should?
Another good reason, besides my attraction to him, to keep him at arm’s length. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“If you need to use my truck to haul it into town, let me know.”
Now we both stared at each other in awkward silence.
He was once more offering an olive branch, even when I didn’t deserve it, and it was up to me to either finally accept it or push it away again.
My first instinct, as it had been for the past two years, was to shut him out. Not to let him past my defenses to a place I was most raw and vulnerable.
I finally murmured, “Okay, thanks.”
He reached past me to grab a business card for the bookstore and when he did, his arm accidentally brushed against mine.
My skin prickled and heat rocketed south into my lower belly, confirming my fear of finding him tempting, despite the fact he was most likely straight.
My mind had to be playing tricks on me.
I hadn’t let anyone touch me since Thomas died. Not even a simple hug. I haven’t allowed any physical contact from my family or from anyone. If I let someone touch me, I was worried I’d simply disintegrate into a pile of dust. Then a strong wind would come along and blow that dust away until nothing of me remained.
Not even a grain of that dust.
Not one damn grain.
His nostrils had flared and his eyes turned even darker when his pupils expanded. The fine hairs on his forearms rose along with goosebumps.
What the hell? He had a reaction to that simple, accidental touch, too. How could that be?
In a stiff, jerky motion he turned away, grabbed the pen lying on the counter and scribbled something on the back of the card.
When he turned back to me, he didn’t meet my eyes. “That’s my personal cell.”
I took the card from his hand, careful to avoid our fingers touching, and stared at the neatly written numbers. “Why do I need that?”
He lifted his gaze but as soon as I met it, he looked past me. “You probably don’t but I’m giving it to you anyway.” His voice now had a deeper rasp to it than previously.
Jesus. Our accidental brush had affected him the same way as it had me.
Could he be gay, too?
I wasn’t going to ask. I didn’t want to know. If he was…
No.
No, even if we somehow became friends, eventually that would be more than enough. I didn’t want a lover. I no longer wanted to feel anything for anybody. Opening myself up to that kind of relationship would be more of a risk than I was willing to take.
My thumb brushed back and forth over his business card. Did it still feel slightly warm where he’d held it?
