Page 18 of Never Say Yes To A Stranger

He very much looks like he’d enjoy one damn gummy bear, but then he closes himself off and denies himself. He shuts downon those few seconds of sweet, utter heaven. “Where are the books?”

I walk to the living room, and he follows me. His eyes bulge when he views the bookcase. This week, I went to the thrift store in the small town half an hour away. I’ve been there before. They happen to sell their books at ten for a dollar. As luck would have it, someone donated their whole collection of pure smut, which is very exciting for me since I enjoy reading a good romance and can take down one or two in a day. It’s about the only action I see out here, and also? Some of those love stories are pretty sweet. I should be a complete and utter cynic after what happened to me, but I can’t seem to wipe out the gross, romantic streak within me. Doesn’t everyone hope for a happily ever after, even if it’s only a secret hope?

“The online poker then,” he chokes out with a cough.

I grab my tablet off the coffee table and try to turn it on. “Oh, shoot. I forgot to charge it. It’s dead.” There are two handheld games on the table, but when I try them, they’re both dead as well. “Double shoot. I forgot to buy batteries. Looks like you’ll just have to watch me sew, after all.”

All this man has to do is breathe, and I burst into spontaneous goosebumps, but now that he’s breathing heavily? Oh, my holy rumpuses. He’s got his facial shit down to a science, while I have the poker face of a grinning chihuahua. Never mind. Those things can take a handoff if they’re inclined, grinning or not. His eyes give nothing away. They’re still just as hard and flinty.

Does he have to be sodifferentfrom everyone else? That’s the problem. Hisedgeis my newedginess.

“Did you have a good week?” I’m not trying to goad him, I swear.

“No. It was the same week I have every week.”

“The week you deserve?” I probe.

“No.” His eyes track to the books, then to the window. He looks like he’s going to tell me this was all a mistake, pull out his wallet, and pay up. Sudden panic flares inside me. I want to laugh all this off, clear the table, and be normal, regular Ignacia. No, not me, but my persona. The one I gave him last week. Mostly me. Happy, sweet, somewhat guarded, cautious, genuine me.

When those cold blues slam back to my face, all the breath leaves my body. Note to self: exiting oxygen just leaves room for more fiery blood. “It’s getting late. You do the sewing, and I’ll make dinner.”

“Uh—what?”

“You said you were planning to cook chicken and a salad, so I’ll make that.”

“But you…you’re rich. You have people to do all that. You can’t…you can’t actually…have you ever cooked anything?”

He quirks a brow. “I wasn’t rich for the first half of my life, or did you forget what I shouldn’t have told you?”

Ouch. That might be toneless, and his face is still perfectly arranged into nothingness, but I see something in his eyes. It’s not flames, and it’s not more ice. It’s more like a shadow. I get it. Memories hurt. I miss my family, but they’re all still there, still alive. This man’s birth parents didn’t want him at any point in his life or theirs, and the people who raised him and loved him like their own are both dead. He has no siblings, at least not ones he can reach out to.

Even if he’s dealt with it through expensive therapy, I don’t know whether any amount of talking can fix grief like that. Time doesn’t fix everything, and maybe it shouldn’t. Beau could have been a different person if he hadn’t been given away. He would be a different person if he were given away and his adoptive parents weren’t dead. I mean that in a purely emotional sense and not a financial one, but maybe it’s connected, too. I thinkBeau is a cold, unfeeling asshole covering up a wounded heart by choice. But he probably wasn’t always like this.

Maybe that’s the irony. He’s so good at it. I, on the other hand, have a legit fake identity. I’ve made myself a secondary life. But, on the inside, I’m always going to be who I am. Nothing is going to change that.

Whatever. Dinner is dinner. It’s not crimes against humanity. I don’t have to be on my guard against that.

“I do have chicken in the fridge. I bought it because I thought you’d like it. And I was kidding about the spinach. I’m more of a spring mix kind of girl. But there are cherry tomatoes, cucumbers, and other delicious offerings in the crisper.”

He pretends to be utterly disinterested, as though he’d eat cardboard for dinner if it’s what I had on hand.

“Alright. I’ll get everything out then and find the pans and stuff for you. If you’re serious about making dinner.”

“I’m very rarely not serious,” he says without smiling, his face passive.

“Okay.”Ugh, asshole.

I might have prepped this house childishly for his arrival, but he’s the one who insisted on coming even though he looks like he’d rather take a can opener to his balls than be here. Yeah, that’s a better image than the piercing studio. But if it were me, I’d choose that option and not the can opener because those things haveserratedwheels that pinch together.

Whatever. I’m not going to abandon ProjectShow-this-dude-I’m-a tough-nut-to-bust-and-also-he’s-not-cold-and-dead-on-the-inside-and-that’s-okay.I might have taken the five-year-old child route to get here today, but I’m going to do better starting now, now that I realize it’s truly what was burning behind my breastbone all week.

The other side effects and body burn, we won’t talk about. I won’t think about that. They’re immaterial because those needs are never going to be met.

“You’re clearly not in the mood for conversation,” I add.

One eyebrow arches sarcastically while the rest of him gives me a full-body eye roll as he stands there as stoically as possible. Looks for sure like I’m filing this whole first hour into the little blue folder in my mental filing cabinet titled:Still not sure why you’re here if this is so damn against your will.

Maybe it’s hard being lonely and feeling that. Maybe that’s the hardest thing of all to admit to feeling when you’re supposed to have put all of it behind you. When you’re supposed to be rock-hard super stone—super because nothing about this man could be regular.

---