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She knew.
“And honestly, growing up with four brothers, I’m surprised I got to do any girlish things at all. You’re so lucky to only have one brother.”
Part of tonight’s enticement had been a promised movie from their huge DVD collection. Of course, most of them were action movies, but there had been a few westerns and some older romances too. When Lexi had commented on the latter, Ellie had said her mom used to enjoy watching them when she’d got a chance. Which was rare, except for winter nights, given the time-drain that was the ranch.
“Anyway, the bathroom is free if you want it. If this phone call is anything like the last one, it’s gonna take forever.”
“Okay, thanks.”
She was tempted to follow Ellie in and introduce herself to whoever was on the other end of the call but figured that probably wasn’t the best way to make a good impression. Instead, she moved back to the room she was sleeping in—Mitchell’s room, complete with clear plastic boxes of what looked like old hockey trophies stacked up against one wall. She gathered her clothes and moved to the shower. After the heat of the day, she could really do with washing her hair.
Half an hour later, the dirt of the day sufficiently cleaned away, she spat out her toothpaste, took a drink, and studied her reflection in the patch of fogged glass she’d wiped clear. A pale face and freckles and big eyes stared back. She angled her neck. The curved neckline of the “Cat’s Pajamas” PJ top was almost a perfect match for the red curve across her throat. Memories flashed. She suppressed them. She had no desire to revisit that moment unless absolutely necessary. And given it would never be absolutely necessary to share what had happened, she’d be best to forget it, even if she’d never stop wearing turtle-necked tops.
“Lord, I really don’t want to be so self-conscious about it all the time,” she whispered.
Maybe she could let her scar be seen. But wouldn’t that open her up for more unwanted comments like Jackson’s comments the other day? She still couldn’t believe he’d been so carelessly dismissive. An accident? If only he knew. And if only he knew how much his words had stung, how she had tossed and turned as his words writhed through her sleep.
But thoughts about Jackson never led anywhere good. She’d be better off grabbing her e-reader and finding a fictional man to dream over.
She collected her belongings, opened the door, and collided with a solid chest. “Oh!”
Hands grabbed her upper arms, and she looked up to see the man she’d vowed not to think about. “Are you okay?”
Call her crazy, but it seemed like time slowed, like the air between them was charged, like every particle or neutron or whatever it was had suspended in this moment. Jackson still had his hands on her arms, his eyes remained on hers, his lips parted. And then his gaze slid to her mouth, where it stayed for a long time before sliding further down, to her chin, then coming to rest at her throat.
She felt exposed, naked, even though she was fully clothed. Why hadn’t she worn a bathrobe? Or covered up a little more?
“Lexi.” Jackson’s voice was raspy, deep, and holding a hint of husky drawl before his eyes lifted to meet hers. “I … I …”
He leaned closer, his gaze dropping to her mouth.
Her pulse ratcheted up. Was he going to kiss her? She wet her bottom lip, saw his gaze snag there, and felt her body sway to his.
He lifted a hand, and with a touch of his hand as gentle as the dawning sun over hills, drew two fingers down her skin, down to the corner of her mouth, where his finger paused.
“You have some toothpaste.”
What? His words broke the connection, and she backed away, but he drew closer, his finger still next to her mouth, their strange dance ending as she backed into the wall.
His pupils dilated in the hallway’s dimness as he caressed the spot with his fingertip. His face bent lower. Breath suspended as his hand slid down her jaw to linger at her throat. His gaze met hers, as if wondering if he could touch her there. She tilted her chin slightly as permission.
Heat traversed her throat as he gently traced her scar, his expression soft, his touch tender. Nobody, save herself, her mum, and several doctors, had touched her there since the incident.
“I’m so sorry this happened to you.”
Whether it was from the rasp of sincerity in his voice, or the intensity of his gaze, emotion clogged until she wanted to cry. She drew in a shaky breath, working to stifle the tears. Why was he being so kind? Just what had wrought this change?
His gaze lifted and his hand slid back up her cheek, then, as if aware of just what he’d been doing, he blinked and shifted away. “Sorry. I don’t know why I did that.”
“I thought I wasn’t your type,” she murmured, eyes fixed on him.
“What?” His gaze dropped to her mouth, then back up again.
“You said I wasn’t your type. On your call tonight.”
The air between them cooled as he inched further away. “You heard that?”
She nodded, and something that looked awfully like regret flashed across his features. “I’m not good at this stuff.” He shoved a hand through his hair.
