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“You launched yourself at the photo like it contains the nuclear codes.”
“It doesn’t,” I say.
Another twinge of pain as he removes another tack, setting it in the bowl next to me, the slightplinkof the metal against ceramic not masking his question as he slips the photo from my fingers and moves on to my other palm. “Who’s the dude in it?”
The slight ache from him continuing to remove the pins is nothing like the agony slicing through my heart. The last twenty-four hours have been the worst of my life—and I’ve had plenty of times before now where I thought that was true.
But none of those times top going home yesterday and finding Ashley and George—
I inhale, hold it for a second, then let it out silently, trying to allow that pain to slide down my back. To tuck it away. To move forward.Forward.
But it all flashes through me again, running to Ella’s, pretending I was staying at her place for a girl’s night, sneaking back this morning and packing my stuff.
Then the drive from hell.
And the snowbank.
And now playing pincushion and being tended by a big, brooding man who can’t stand me.
Andmy dog is a pervert.
“He’s no one,” I say, using my pin-free hand to reach down and start plucking thumbtacks from my shin.
He moves to my other leg, begins doing the same, though he’s still moving carefully, with precise movements that speak of control instead of my herky-jerky attempts to hurry toward escape.
Which bears the question: what else does he like to control?
I shiver, but deliberately don’t meet his eyes when he looks at me for a long moment, just concentrate on the thumbtacks, on making sure they’re out of me and landing in the bowl.
“Who’s the chick in it?”
I snatch the photo, folding it in quarters and shoving it in my sweatshirt pocket. “No one.”
Plink. Plink.
Those hazel eyes lift again.
Oh look, he has one of those fancy dishdrawer dishwashers. I saw them on HGTV once and thought they were the coolest thing ever. Of course, I’d been single then and liked the idea of not having to waste water by running a full cycle for a small load—
Of course, I was single now.
Alone.
Like always.
Blegh. I’m a strong, independent woman. I relish my aloneness. I gild it and wear it like a fucking crown.
“No one, huh?” he asks, smoothing his hands over my legs, and I have to remind myself that he’s just searching for pins.
That he doesn’t like me.
But as those big, broad palms skate higher, I find it hard to remember that.
Especially with him so—
“Hey!” I exclaim, reaching for his arm but too damned slow.
He’s snaked a hand into the pocket of my hoodie and snatched the photograph out, stepping back as he unfolds it. “Doesn’t look like no one to me.”
