man, and that’s the kind of statement that sends them into a panic, making them turn tail and run.
I should know. I’ve always had a weakness for that type. I blame my daddy, who ran off when I was young and never looked back. I recognize the trait and usually stay far away from those who exhibit it. While I might be weak, I’m not stupid.
The air is still, waiting right along with me as I search for that flash of panic, followed by retreat. I need to witness it, so this spell he’s cast on me can be broken once and for all.
His fingers tighten on the back of my neck.
He stares into my eyes.
His head tilts. “What am I going to do with you?”
I shrug. “Nothing, if that’s what you want.”
“It’s not what I want.” His gaze dips to my mouth. “I want you. Even though I shouldn’t.”
I don’t know what that means. It sounds noncommittal, or like an admission and condition rolled into one.
“Now what?” I ask.
His fingers fall away, leaving a cold spot on my neck where his palm was hot against my skin. He shifts, pointing at my mother’s grave. “Want to tell me about your mom?”
I shake my head. “There’s nothing to tell.”
“There must be something.”
I love my mom, but looking at her through adult eyes, I find myself intolerant of all her failings. Instead of romanticizing her as I’m supposed to when a loved one dies, I pick at her faults, rolling over in my mind how she failed us and how we suffered because of her poor life decisions. I don’t like that I think that, so I keep it to myself.
I divert, not interested in my past, but fascinated by his. I raise my knees under the fabric of my dress and wrap my arms around my shins. “What about you? You’ve officially met every member of my family, and I know nothing about yours.”
“There’s not much to tell.”
I poke him in the ribs. “See?”
He laughs, shaking his head. “My parents had me late in life, and I was an only child. My dad died of a heart attack when I was eighteen. A while back, my mom developed dementia, and she’s in a nursing home outside of New Orleans.”
“Do you ever go visit her?”
“Nope.” He shoots me a glance. “Does that make me horrible?”
I’ve long ago given up trying to figure out what makes a person horrible. The truth is, most of us are just human and prone to mistakes. We can’t help ourselves, even when we hurt other people.
Instead an idea niggles in the back of my brain, and I scrape my teeth over my bottom lip. “We could go visit her tomorrow.”
It’s Sunday, the slowest day of the week. We could leave in the morning and return tomorrow night.
He frowns. “I don’t think that’s going to be on any of those best-first-date-ideas lists.”
I cock a brow. “Is that what we’re doing? Dating?”
He scrubs a hand over his jaw. “It’s a thought.”
I roll my eyes. “Do you ever just answer a question directly?”
“I don’t know what I’m doing with you.” His jaw tightens for a fraction of a second before it releases. He meets my eyes. “You’re my habit.”
“What does that mean?” It’s probably the first revealing thing he’s said, and even that is cryptic.
He shifts away from me, looking out at the trees on the other side of the road. “I’ve got a habit of self-destructing when I find something good.”
“I see.” The words are slow, like they don’t want to come out of my mouth.
He drags a hand through his hair. “I like it here. I like the way you run things. I like Wyatt and Jackson. This place is brimming with excitement and opportunity. It’s not far from where I grew up. It feels like a place I could put down some roots. And just as sure as I’m sitting here, I will absolutely find a way to fuck it up.” He returns his attention to me, gazing directly and intently into my eyes. “And, mark my words, you will be my downfall.”
I look away, studying the grass. I rip a few blades from the ground and let them play through my fingers. He’s probably right. Especially if it’s a pattern and he’s determined to complete the circle. But it’s also true that if it’s not me, it will be something else. That’s the thing about self-destruction. You’ll find a way.