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His words ring in the ensuing silence between us. Anger crackles over him, his chest rising and falling in agitation. I don’t avert my eyes; it feels like a betrayal to do so.
I clear my throat, swallowing the need to touch him. “I’m sorry. It was out of line to get all self-righteous on you. You’re right; I don’t have a clue how it must feel.” I raise a hand, then let it fall. “I’m sorry.”
All the stiffness leaves him on a heavy exhale, and he sinks back onto the couch cushions. “Ah, hell, don’t give me that look. I can’t take it.”
“What look? I’m not giving a look.” I’m honestly not—my contrition is real.
He tilts his head my way, a slight smile on his lips. “Yes, you are.”
“I’m not. I swear, John.”
The smile grows. But it’s thin and weary. “It’s a look, all right. Those big, sad blue eyes, full of worry and regret. It hurts to see it.”
My lips twitch and I fight my own smile, because I know he isn’t angry anymore. “It upsets me that I added to your grief. I was trying to be helpful.”
His laugh is husky. “Stella Button, you annoy the hell out of me sometimes, but I like that you’re willing to fight my battles. Even if you’re fighting me while doing it.”
Relief flows through me, taking the strength from my knees. “Well, then, I should probably confess that I meant what I said.”
He snorts. And it sounds an awful lot like “No shit, Stells.”
I choose to ignore it. “You are not tainted or pathetic. I will never see you that way.”
As soon as I say the words, I’m embarrassed. Not because they aren’t true, but it feels like they’ve revealed too much, and he’s too silent. We’re facing each other, but I can’t really look him in the eye. Maybe he can’t either because his gaze is hazy, almost lost.
Uncomfortable heat cramps my insides and pricks at my skin. I want to turn and walk away, but I can’t move. That too would reveal things I don’t want seen.
A deep breath moves through him like a sigh, and then he blinks as though coming out of a fog. When he looks at me again, his eyes are bright, like green glass in the sun. A man’s eyes shouldn’t be that expressive. It makes a woman forget to keep up her defenses.
“Stells,” he whispers, “where have you been all my life?”
A lump rises in my throat. “Drifting.”
The corner of his lip quirks. “Well, stop. Don’t drift away.”
“Okay.” It’s a croak of sound, my chest too tight for more.
His expression twists and becomes pained. “You wouldn’t be so quick to agree if you really knew what I was thinking.”
My heart thuds hard against my ribs.
Don’t ask. Don’t ask.
“What are you thinking, John?”
From beneath lowered lids, he watches me, his long, lean body suddenly loose and languid on the couch. “I want to kiss you.”
My breath escapes in a whoosh. “Just that?”
God, please do it. Over and over.
“For now,” he says quietly. But I see him retreating into himself.
It’s shame. No matter what I say, he still believes he’s damaged goods.
“And if I want you to do more than kiss me?” I ask, pushing.
The light in his eyes dims further. “Button …” His voice cracks and he swallows. “You’ve got to learn not to take me seriously. I say stupid shit all the time. I’m not the guy for you.”
My heart drops to my toes. I should believe him; why would he lie? There’s a thread of truth in his words. I can hear it clearly. I should let it go. The voice in my head—the one that always seems to show up and tell me that I’m a failure—is insisting that I’d never have a chance with a man like John. He is a legend and I’m just plain old me.
Thing is, I hate that bitch; she’s ruled too much of my life as it is. I suspect most of us have a similar voice, an invasive naysayer who tries its best to make us hate ourselves. I suspect John has one that turns into a full-on scream some days.
I take a deep breath, press my cold palms to my hips. “It was bullshit, then? You wanting to kiss me?”
The muscles along his torso and arms visibly clench. And for a second, I wonder if he won’t answer me. But then he does, all hard tones and rasping pain. “I’ve wanted to kiss you since the night we met and you stole one from me. I want to learn your flavor, the sounds you make, how you’ll move against me when I taste you.”
His eyes go hot, focused on my lips. “I think about your mouth all the time. Those teasing little freckles, the soft curve of your upper lip, the stubborn fullness of your bottom lip.” He husks out a laugh. “Stella Button, it’s downright embarrassing how much I think about kissing you.”
