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“I got an email from your mom,” I tell him hesitantly, and he grunts but says nothing else. I can’t help but wonder at their relationship. “She says she's sorry.”
Another grunt.
I continue, “Do you think she's sorry? Because I think she's scheming.”
This time, he peers at me over his shoulder. He gives me the side of his face that isn't scarred, his right side. He’s ungodly handsome in a rough, rugged, mountain man kind of way. He’s not polished and smooth. He feels natural surrounded by this hard gray stone. Just like the stone, if I fell, I think this man could cut deep into me.Ruin me.
Pushing away the insanity of my thought, I continue to assess him and can’t help but frown at his lack of beard.
I find it peculiar that he doesn't have a beard. There’s a shadow of hair on his face, but it’s not enough to hide his scars. I would think if it bothered him like I believe it does, he would try to cover it. But he doesn't. I wonder why.
I'm not complaining. His scar—it kind of makes him look badass.
That's probably silly. He probably hates it, but I kind of like it. And the more that I look at him, the more it grows on me.
Geez.
It's only been a night.
A couple hours and the man is growing on me.I’m crazier than Lucy.
What would happen if I stayed the entire three weeks I’d been planning to stay? And what am I going to do now that my holiday plans are a bust?
I'm probably going to go home and dig the tiny Christmas tree from the little box that I keep in the storage closet in my trailer. I'm going to run a sad string of lights around the tiny Christmas tree and I'm going to hang a few tired bulbs.
I'm probably going to cry.
Maybe I'll get myself a frozen dinner.
There's no point in baking an entire batch of Viennese Whirl cookies for just myself. It's not like I need to gain 20 pounds over the holiday straight in my ass.
“You think she's scheming?” His deep timbre breaks into my thoughts, and I blink up at him.
“I do, actually.” I give him a firm nod when he turns holding two plates with sandwiches, handing me one and I take the plate. I’m starving.
“What do you think she's scheming about?”
I give him a cheeky smile as I shift on the chair. “Well, I think she thinks you're lonely,” I start, gauging his reaction. It’s blank.This man is a hard read.I continue, “And I think she thinks that you need a woman.”
He freezes, his eyes snapping to mine.
I hesitate, but only for a moment before I press, “Do you need a woman?”
“Probably not,” his voice breaks, and he clears his throat, gesturing to the sandwich. “Hope you like Turkey.”
“Who doesn't like turkey?”
He shrugs. “Who knows? You might be one of those uppity women who don't like meat.”
“You mean vegetarian,” I correct, fighting my grin even as I assure, “I like meat.”
“Good. We'll get along fine, then.”
I lift my sandwich to prove my point and take a big bite. Then I moan, because it's that good and I'm that hungry. I haven't eaten since this morning, and I’m not one to skip meals. Or snacks. I like food, a truth told by my full ass.
“This is good.”
He adjusts his stance. “Good.”
