And the only answer that makes sense is that he felt a spark between us, and it scared him.
But nothing scares me. Not since I fucked every single thing in my life up anyway. What do I have to be scared about?
Well, maybe he scares me a little. I have a shitty track record with guys, and there is this gnawing fear that this is just another potential disaster, which is why I lied to Brenna. Or tried to lie to Brenna. But that little prickle of fear isn't enough to keep me from hurling myself towards this whole potential craziness with complete abandon.
It feels scarily good to freefall when I'm with Winch. I've been treading carefully for months now, and it goes against my natural grain. Winch is someone who makes me happy to attempt dipping my toe into crazy waters of possible romance again.
"I don't mind working out here." He jerks a thumb at the ground, choked with weeds. "I'll hammer this out in no time. My grandfather used to make us weed as punishment when we were kids. I got pretty damn quick." He glances around at the hills and valleys and oceans of paper and files on every surface of the floor. "You're gonna be swamped. Wanna hand when I'm done?"
"Are you implying that you need to do my work and yours?"
I lean out the window, and our faces are so close I can see the starbursts of navy around his pupils.
He twines a piece of my hair around his finger. He tries to look nonchalant, but the tight draw of his lips hints at all the tension he's working to hide. His voice drops and he leans his face so close to mine, I can smell the sweet mint on his breath.
"I'm implying that if I have to kill myself to get through this damn weeding so I can come inside and spend the day with you, it would be cool if you'd let me."
And there it is. The pull that always dances my way and yanks me tight after any push. Last week started out all about distance but eventually slid us closer, and this week seems to be about nothing but closing until there's no space left between us at all.
I take the reins and hold tight so my voice doesn't flutter too much.
"I will be cool and let you, as long as you don't get in my way."
He takes a ballcap out of his back pocket and pulls it low over his eyes, and I tip the bill up with my finger and watch the smile commandeer the bottom half of his face.
"Work fast," I whisper.
"Will do. And I'm not making any promises about staying out of your way. I never had any fun at these community service things before you came around. You can't ask me to avoid the only person I actually like hanging out with."
He picks up a rake that someone left tossed on the ground and leans against it, the pull of his tanned muscles setting my mouth to water.
But it's his words that make my heart boomerang. It's all casual right this minute, but maybe it's the first taste of something more, something exciting.
"You know, you don't have to go breaking the law if you want to spend time with me. Most guys just ask me on a date. Not that I always accept."
I prop my elbow on the sill and hold my chin in my hand, batting my lashes with intense suggestion.
His spine snaps up and the dark blue of his irises deepens closer to black. "I better get to work or I'll be out here all day."
I watch him rush toward the far end of the plot he needs to weed, as I smother the huff of indignation pressing against my lips.
I pick up a few files, and determine that I will tackle one paper at a time, no matter how long, hard, and grueling it is. While I sort Abbots from Babcocks, I also work very hard to keep my mind from wondering why Winchester didn't take me up on my offer.
I tend to be the kind of girl who lets whatever's on my mind explode out and ignite whatever's around me, which accounts for some of my recent trouble. I just can't let things sit. I could sooth my ego and tell myself that he was just being shy, but a guy as good-looking and charming as Winchester Youngblood doesn't have a shy cell in his brain.
I glance out the window. His shirt is already getting soaked with sweat and clings tight to his shoulders, showing off the lean curl of his back as he heaves weeds out of the dirt with rapid, almost frantic yanks.
Because it's hot outside and he wants to finish quickly.
Or because he wants to finish quickly and come in to help me.
Then why the hell not ask me on a date? I sort through a whole slew of Babcocks with half an eye before I find some Conways and make a neat stack, A, B, C. Maybe I misread the signals, as usual.
Suddenly I wonder if the most obvious reason is getting tossed to the side like mental junk mail: maybe he has a girlfriend.
That would be a game stopper because I would never even run my finger over home-wrecker territory. My best friend, or the-bitch-I-thought-was-my-best-friend-before-I-met-Brenna-and-realized-what-that-term-actually-means, screwed my ex-boyfriend just before he and I broke up.
I slam the few files I've culled into the drawer with a crash that shakes the entire metal structure and wonder if I still hate her more than I realize. I caught her and him together, and seeing the two of them having sex made it feel like she drugged me, cut
