Page 42 of Silent Is The Heart

Closing the distance, I go for it. His soft peach fuzz tickles my upper lip. His lips are soft and still. It’s a chaste thing, so different from our first. It’s the way a first kiss should be—a moment so wonderful it’s frozen in time. Little tingles of electricity ping through my entire body. When I pull back, his stunned face looks back at me. He…seems almost conflicted. The amused sound he makes next has me even more baffled, especially when he gets up from the couch and heads to the kitchen.

“You need another drink?” he calls.

“N-no. I’m good.”

What the heck was that? Shit. Am I that bad of a kisser?

Returning with a bottle of water, he drops back down into his same spot as before, but sitting upright. Resting his elbows on his knees, he hunkers over his popcorn bowl, gaze fixed on the movie. And now…he’s eating popcorn.

Did I just commit an error of epic proportions? He was caressing the back of my neck and bopping me on the nose a moment ago. Now, it’s like I’m not even in the room.

I don’t understand. The way he looks at me sometimes—it makes me think he’s fallen as deep into this thing that’s built between us as I have.

“I…hope that was okay. I guess I should have asked first,” I hedge.

Turning his head for a second without looking at me, he smirks.I am officially violated. Shame on you,he signs teasingly before reaching for more popcorn.

Signing. Sarcasm. They’re Easton Bennick defense mechanisms. I’ve always respected his invisible walls, but right now they feel like weapons drawn unnecessarily. Does he have nothing else to say? What is so wrong about a little honest communication?

Glancing around my cottage in a daze, I don’t think his avoidance of the subject is a question of sparing my feelings. The furniture and use of his car are one thing. I get it. Some people are givers when others are down on their luck, but two months of hanging out at least four nights a week is well beyond a giving kink.

The last two weeks, I’ve seen him every single night and spent most of the day with him each weekend, even being invited to watch him work. He acts more domestic than Jason ever did, easily moving in tandem with me when we cook dinner in my kitchen together.

The other night, he dragged my feet into his lap andrubbedthem. Those are things that couples do. He’s quickly become my world, and I don’t see how I haven’t become his.

Inhaling, he arches back, stretching and checking the time of his phone.I should get going.

With that, he gives me a brotherly squeeze on the knee and gets up.

Wow. He’s actually walking to the door to put his boots on. Unbelievable. I know I’m terrible at this sort of thing, but…that’s it? How can he not have some kind of reaction?

Defense mechanisms or not, I’m suddenly salty. There’s no other way to explain it–I’m being ignored. Jason did that to meall the time whenever I voiced protests about not wanting to go out to another dinner to schmooze with people. When I’d suggest going away to camp or drive down the coast for the weekend, he’d laugh like it was a silly idea and not take me seriously. I can handle not clicking with someone—I learned plenty about that—but being ignored is like being invisible. I don’t want to be invisible ever again.

Getting up, I inch my way over, watching him finish the laces on his boots. Straightening up, he flashes me a polite smile. I officially hate that kind of smile on him.

When he heads toward the credenza by an old mirror that George had in the place when I moved in, I realize he’s going to fetch his keys. He really was planning to leave without a word.

“What is your deal? I don’t understand you sometimes,” I mumble glumly, my thoughts airing themselves like dirty laundry.

When he replies by pantomiming me with an amused quirk of his brow, frustration wins over my sheepishness. Shaking my head, I throw my hands up.

“You kissed me at Pulse,” I explain, but since we’ve never mentioned it, it feels like I need more evidence. “You’re always kissing me some way. You touch me. You look at me like…”

Kicking one leg out as though it’s taking patience to endure my inquisition, he hooks a thumb in the pocket of his jeans and signs with his other hand,Like what?

“Like…maybe you’re feeling something.”

Snickering, he shakes his head.Don’t get sentimental on me. I’m not the marrying type.

And then he heads toward the kitchen where his black leather jacket is slung over one of the chairs. My heart probably has no business breaking into a million pieces. Mostlyit’s for him, though, not me. It feels traitorous to realize things about him now based on memories from years ago, but I’m grateful for it.

He’s a runner.

If his leg hadn’t been in traction when he was at Hampton Hills, he’d have no doubt been gone like the wind. It explains why he was so hostile toward me when I first contacted him. Some people shut down when they’re uncomfortable. Easton shuts down by fleeing the scene. Fleeing on foot, or motorcycle, or by stealing away the sound of his voice.

“Damn it, Easton, don’t do that.”

Coat in hand, he turns around with a stony expression.Do what?

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