Page 34 of Edge of Ruin
“Why wouldn’t it be?” I stuck out my chin, crossing my arms over my chest.
“It’s a big layout of money,” he said. “A big risk.”
“Yeah? So?”
“I hope you’re not being unrealistic.”
“Why?” I demanded. “Lots of people start businesses. Most of them fail. Sure, it’s risky. Life is risky. Why do you think it’s particularly unrealistic for me?”
I had to ask, even though I was afraid of the answer.
He was silent for a long moment, clearly hesitating. “I think you’ll regret it,” he said. “That kind of investment requires a huge time commitment. And a long attention span.”
I counted to ten, doing careful slow breathing to not react and fly off the handle. “I’m not going to play this game with you anymore, Jack. Cut that shit out.”
“It’s not a game, Vivi,” he said. “Any woman who sleeps in a sleeping bag, eats off paper plates on the floor, and cooks with aluminum campware doesn’t impress me with her readiness to put down roots.”
I grabbed up the last plate and stuffed it into the garbage. “I’ve been stranded here for five days with no vehicle,” I reminded him, between clenched teeth.
The teakettle began to hiss. I turned it off, reached in the cupboard for a mug and pulled out a plastic travel mug with a sip lid and adhesive plastic on the bottom for sticking to the dashboard of a car. I stared at it, my jaw clenched before I threw in the tea bag, poured the water, mixed in the honey. Every damn thing I looked at felt like a slap, a reproach, a dig. Proof of everything he believed about me.
“Think whatever you like,” I said. I grabbed the broom and dustpan and began to sweep up crumbs. “It makes absolutely no difference to me. I’m just going to keep doing my thing.”
“Yes, I’m sure your intentions are good.”
The detached tone of his voice maddened me. “I can make my business work. I know I can. I have for years.” I grabbed a dishcloth from the sink.
“What you’re proposing is a very different kind of business, but whatever.”
I blocked the bad language that wanted to burst out of my mouth. Lucia had taught me that much, at least. I shook the swept-up crumbs into the garbage and rinsed off my hands at the sink. His sudden presence behind me made me gasp.
“I can’t seem to stop making you angry,” he said softly. “I’m sorry.”
“You’re making me crazy.” I closed her eyes. “You say, don’t go, stay safe. Then you insult me and try to drive me away. Then you flirt with me, mess with me, seduce me. What am I supposed to think?”
“I’m sorr?—”
“Shut up.” I twisted around, holding up my finger, wagging it in his face. “Not one more word. You’ll just piss me off worse if your lips are moving, so shut it.”
He drew in a breath, opened his mouth. I put my finger on it, but when I started to lift my hand away, he just trapped it there, pressing it against his hot, soft lips. His breath tickled my palm.
I snatched my hand away and turned my back again. “Don’t. For fuck’s sake, Jack. You’re making it worse.”
The proximity of his body transformed into the pressure of the lightest touch against my back. Then his lips pressed against my nape. He was kissing me. The hell?
The contact was exquisitely soft. A point of warmth, of silent tenderness that spread and grew. Like the sunrise, slowly turning snowy mountains pink.
Oh, no, no, no. This was as bad an idea now as it had ever been, I told myself.
But I felt so soft inside when he touched me. So hungry for the feelings he triggered. For what happened to my body whenever he was close to me.
Like a junkie, craving the poison that was destroying me. I’d watched that drama play out when I was a kid. I had never touched drugs in my life, other than the occasional drink from time to time, but look at me now. Doomed to repeat that nightmarish trap in a different form. People got sucked into their ancient bullshit all the time, in spite of their convictions, their promises to themselves, their deepest fears, their best intentions. They were imprinted. There was no escape.
And I couldn’t stop. I could not push his hands away.
He stroked my breast, brushing the tight nipple that poked through my tank top against his palm. He slid his other hand down my spine, his fingers tracing every bump of my backbone until it hit warm skin under the hem of the top—and then delved, ever so slightly, into the waistband of my gauze skirt.
It was hanging a bit loose these days. Ever since Snake Eyes had started circling around my sisters, the stress had been stealing my appetite and shrinking my ass.
