Page 25 of Restored By You

The music holds us. His hand splays wide and warm against my back, and I become aware of every point where we touch—his palm, his chest, the rough graze of his jaw near my temple. My whole body has rearranged itself around him without a second thought.

I’ve been chased before. Charmed, flattered, pursued by men who were the picture of perfection. But I’ve never experienced anyone like Rhett.

Because this man just looked me dead in the eye and told me the truth.

And I have absolutely no idea what to do with a thing like that.

His hand shifts against my back and I peer up, and that’s my mistake, because his face is right there. Close. Handsome.

The whole room tilts.

He leans in and his nose grazes mine. His breath is warm and beer-sweet and I feel the barest brush of his stubble against my cheek, and every nerve I own lights up at once, straining toward the half-inch of air still left between us.

Half an inch. That’s all that’s left.

Half an inch and I’d know.

“I can’t,” I whisper.

Rhett goes still. For one suspended second, neither of us breathes.

His forehead drops to rest against mine, and he nods, understanding me without an explanation. And I’m grateful for that. Because I can’t say I have one.

He doesn’t let go either. He simply draws me in a fraction closer, tucks our joined hands back against his chest, and keeps us swaying like he’s got all the time in the world to wait for me to change my mind.

Nine.

Rhett

It’s 5:47 AM and there’s already a light on at the Hargrove house.

I sit in my truck at the curb, engine ticking as it cools, and watch the front window glow gold against the blue-dark. The sun’s not even up yet. Frost webs the windshield at the edges, and my breath fogs the cab.

She’s here. I told her six, but being early seems to be her thing, I realize, smirking to myself.

I told her the only way this reno gets done is if I’m swinging a hammer here before the sun and clocked in on the mountain by half past eight, because Jenn runs that site like a woman who bills by the decibel and they don’t let a saw fire before nine. So, it’s dark mornings and late evenings here. I figured she’d sleep through the first week of them, roll up around eight with a coffee, and I’d already be gone.

Instead, while she’s in there turning on another light, I’m sitting here replaying a half-inch of air.

I can’t.

Two words. She’d meant them. I’m not fool enough to think she didn’t. But I’ve spent enough years reading what people don’t say to hear the rest of that sentence.

I can’t is not I don’t want to.

A man could lose his whole head in the space between those.

I grab my thermos and get out of the truck. The porch boards creak under my boots, and I add re-set the third one to a list I’m keeping in my head. Before I can knock, the door opens.

Shea’s in leggings and an oversized sweatshirt, sleeves shoved up, curls piled and clipped. No makeup. A smudge of something already on her jaw, though we haven’t started. She’s holding two cups and looks up at me with an excited energy that has me grinning.

“I made coffee,” she says. “I didn’t know how you take it, but…here.” She thrusts a paper cup at me. “It’s probably terrible.”

I take it and our fingers brush. Intentional on my end. “Thanks.”

She takes a deep breath. “About last night…”

“Where do you want to start?” I ask, moving past her into the house.