Tattooed Troublemaker - Elise Faber Page 0,41

than I had ever managed. “I know two days ago makes things . . . complicated. But I’ve been thinking. This doesn’t have to change anything. I don’t want to ruin your life. We can just pretend it didn’t happen—”

That made my mind flash directly into the present.

The wounds disappearing, the fear and vulnerability gone for the moment.

The heat doused with a bucket of water.

“Pretend?” I said and, yes, my voice was laced in frost.

He stopped, glanced up at me, emerald eyes dark pools in his face, pools I couldn’t begin to swim through and understand the meaning beneath—

And what a change that was.

When was the last time I’d been outside of myself enough to want to know what someone was thinking and feeling beneath the surface? I wasn’t having heart-to-hearts with the guys from my work sites, and I had exactly two close friends—Tig and Delia—and it wasn’t like our trio was readily sitting around exposing our vulnerabilities. Yes, we’d gotten to know each other. Yes, they knew about my past. But we mostly hung out and ate and gave each other a hard time. I knew they were good people, but the simple truth was that there were still plenty of things I held close to my chest. Things I’d never told anyone.

Until Garret.

He knew about the orchids and the pink bear. He knew their names, knew that the pain was still heavy and raw.

And now he wanted to pretend that none of the things between us had happened. That should be what I wanted, right?

No ties. No connections. Heart safe and sound.

And yet . . .

I wasn’t sure I wanted to play it safe. Or if I even could at this point.

Yes, I’d run, but that was because I felt something. Him just stating so easily that we could move on and go forward, like what had happened the previous night was no big deal w-was—

Ouch.

Yeah. That.

But before I could traverse farther through that particular minefield, I saw what Garret was reaching for. My lips parted, my hand extended—

“Wait—”

He picked it up from the wrong side and the papers inside spilled out. “Fuck,” he muttered, grabbing at them, stacking them back up. I saw the moment he’d realized exactly what he was holding in his hands. He froze and his head jerked up, wide eyes meeting mine. “Oh, baby.”

My brows drew down, not understanding.

“I’m sorry.” He shook his head hard, his expression changing. Not that it was no longer sympathetic, instead it was as though he’d just seen a person fall on the street. Generic sympathy. General human compassion. Sighing, he stuck the papers back into the envelope. “No wonder—” Another shake, those features softening then tensing. “To lose her, too— Shit, Charlie, why didn’t you say something?” He carefully set the envelope inside the toolbox, along with a few remaining items then latched the top.

“I—I—” I faltered, mind racing, the puzzle pieces of what he was saying fitting into place.

I’d told him about my parents.

What I hadn’t told him about was my grandmother.

I rubbed my forehead, eyes stinging, heart aching from the distance, from him saying he wanted to pretend. Did I dare trust him with everything? Before the last five minutes, I would have said yes.

He straightened, the toolbox at his feet. “How can I help?” he asked, his face earnest now, his tone kind . . . and not the generic type. This was the Garret I’d opened up to, who I’d shared that night with. “Sweetheart, tell me how I can make this better for you.”

Sucking in a breath, I knew I had a decision to make. I could go back to Plan A. I could run. I could leave. I could grab onto the sliver of distance he’d put between us, push and prod until he erected walls between us. Cut this final tie and be done with him. I was finished with the job and didn’t need to be in the shop. It would be easy, even—he was only a guest artist, after all. They always moved on after a time. Or, perhaps, I could stick with Plan B. Put him off, end the conversation, and go.

But . . . Plan C.

Was it possible that I might be able to have a plan that didn’t involve me running or being alone or having nothing but my empty apartment and my job and—

“My grandmother left me in the hospital that night,” I interrupted.

He stopped, brows drawn down. “What?”

“That night, when my parents