Page 31 of Branded
“Hmm?” I asked.
Warm hands came in contact with mine, making me jolt and jump as his hot, calloused fingers wrapped around mine. “Do you want me to go?” he asked. “Is this too much?”
It was…and it wasn’t.
“No,” I whispered.
His beard twitched and I allowed my gaze to drift higher, and it was to see a flash of white teeth. “Is it my beard you’re admiring then?” he asked lightly. “Because I know I can grow an impressive one.”
Only he would describe his beard as impressive.
And that made my lips curve.
“You’re ridiculous,” I said softly.
Another flash of white. “I’m good at being ridiculous.”
Now, what did that mean?
I had no clue, but a part of me—the little pieces inside me that were knot-free, had always remained knot-free—really didn’t like that.
Because it was denigrating.
And Smitty was a good man.
“Fire.”
“What?” My brows pulled together.
He released one hand, brushed his thumb beneath one of my bottom lashes and then the other. “Tell me, little bird, what’s made that fire appear in your eyes.”
“You,” I whispered. “It’s your fault.”
His body rocked back like I’d dealt him an actual physical blow. “Me?” Concern deepening lines outside his mouth, at the corners of his eyes, in a collection of ripples on his forehead. “I’m the reason you look the way you do?”
“I—” I swallowed, because he was totally the reason for all the feelings rippling through me, and it was also totally not his fault. Everything was in my head, all twisting around. Only, words of explanation didn’t come.
How did I say that I could talk to him when I couldn’t talk to anyone else?
How did I explain this…connection, this…tie drawing me to him?
How did I tell him that I didn’t like him denigrating himself because he was good and smart and funny and kind?
How did I give him all that when I was a mess who could barely hold a conversation?
I needed to figure out my own shit and my own life and my own anxiety. I needed to be normal before I thought of pursuing anything with a man. Because, yeah, he’d said he wanted to be friends, but he’d also made his interest clear. If I gave him an opening, he’d take it.
And he’d be disappointed when he got to know me, really got to know me.
Oh, he’d be nice about it when he left.
Because he was Smitty.
And he was a good man.
But when he broke things off—as men always did after getting through my walls—I would be just a little bit more broken, a little bit more shattered, a little bit more impossible to find my way back to whole.
Trust me, Kailey.
