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Even when she rolled in the target, he never spoke.
The pattern of his shots was better than hers. Maybe tighter than any she had ever seen. Dean had shot without seeming to take aim. He’d been fast, incredibly accurate.
Not able to look at him, she unclipped the target and showed it to him. “Nice shooting, Dean. Want to hang this on your wall?”
“No, O. I don’t.”
At that she looked up at him and there it was—compassion. It was almost unbearable.
Ophelia didn’t know what she would have done if he hadn’t helped her. She’d failed. All her old sureness and reliable instincts had vanished in the blink of an eye.
Nothing in her life made sense anymore.
She was coming apart at the seams, shattering into jagged splinters.
And in that moment, she was ashamed that Dean had seen that weakness, resented him for his sure and steady shooting and the pity she saw in his beautiful eyes.
CHAPTERSIX
“Drink this.”In the noisy shooting range parking lot, Dean’s voice was a low rumble, rough against Ophelia’s throbbing eardrums.
She squinted at the red-and-white can gripped in his long fingers that appeared as if by magic under her bowed head. When she didn’t move, Dean ripped open the pull tab with an abruptness that flustered her. Her stomach churning sickly inside, Ophelia surveyed him through strands of hair hanging limply in front of her face. Even her hair was wet with sweat.
“C’mon, O.” He held the can to her mouth.
Some of the cola dribbled onto her chin as she sputtered, “Dean, please stop with—”
“The mothering? No. Drink the damn soda.” Standing with one foot propped next to her on the cement steps where she’d collapsed, he bent forward, wiped the stickiness away, and pushed back the curtain of hair hiding her face, awkwardly brushing it behind her ears. “O…I’m going to force-feed this to you if you don’t drink it.”
She stiffened and raised her head, batting his hand away.
“There’s that spunk.”
That compassion was still in his eyes along with a glint of humor. Glad the pity was gone, she took the can. He swiped at her hair again, and his careful touch quelled her restless twisting. Snagging the hair tie wrapped around her wrist, he moved behind her and gathered her damp tresses, slowing and settling the churning, lulling her into a singular stillness where traffic noises disappeared. There was only the rhythmic stroking of Dean’s hand against her, the strength in his fingers coursing through each strand of her hair and down her body, a languid tide flowing from his hands into her, floating her away to some far shore where she glimpsed shapes and shadows in a half-remembered place.
Drifting in the utter rightness of the moment, Ophelia was aware of every move he made, her lids growing heavier with each careful pull as his big hands plaited her hair into a tight braid.
“You keeping tabs on me?” she asked.
“There’s no crime in offering a beautiful woman lunch. Is there?” He moved in front of her again, holding out a bag.
She frowned, noting the skinned knuckles, the weary tension in his deep blue eyes. There was understanding and pain of his own in those eyes, and a loneliness, too, that she hadn’t seen before. Behind it all, his acute intelligence was piercing the private space where she’d huddled for the last couple of days.
“Does the offer come with an explanation of why you look like you were in a fight?”
“It does if you drink.” He set his finger under the can and nudged it to her mouth. A typical male teasing characteristic. She recognized the joking in a tense situation. It was inherent in cops and apparently military types. The glint in his eyes invited her to smile.
She just couldn’t comply.
At least he wasn’t scraping her raw nerve endings with meaningless conversation.
The thank-you she owed him stuck in her throat. Instead, she nodded, her attention shifting to the cars rushing past on the highway. It was safer than looking at him.
With the memory of her failure still weighing her down, she couldn’t handle his astute inspection. He’d calmed the tremors inside her, but she couldn’t ignore the fact her shaking had led to an irresponsible breach of safety in her handling of a once familiar tool.
Or was that something she was telling herself so that she wouldn’t have to dig too deep, risk too much?
Wondering if his story would take her mind off things, she didn’t respond. She let her eyes drift over him. He was a potent distraction. Again, he was in faded denim with black boots. She noticed the worn fly where frayed threads separated faded denim from the metal zipper teeth.
