Page 40 of Staying for You

“Pardon?”

“A list. Of the reasons why you’re nothing like what I said you were. I’ve been adding to it the last three days.”

I take a sip of my coffee and narrow my eyes. “A list, huh?”

He nods, visibly swallows, then asks if he can come in. I stretch my arm out in silent invitation and close the door behind him.

Just like earlier, having him here in the cabin makes it feel like the size of a cracker jack box. He brought along with him the enticing aroma of winter and his spicy body wash along with a little hint of saw dust like he’d been chopping wood before he came down to my cabin.

Of course he was.

My vagina doesn’t stand a chance against him.

He bends over, removing his snow-covered boots, and I watch as his fingers work to untie the laces. His nails are short – almost too short, as if he bites them. There are a few small scars on the backs of his hands and when he moves in the right way, I can see callouses on his palms. The hands of a working man. I bet he wouldn’t know what to do with himself if I asked him to go get a mani-pedi with me – or even know the first place to send me if I asked him for a recommendation for a local place. Certainly wouldn’t be a regular like Scott was.

When he stands, I offer to take his coat and he hands it over. I drape it over the back of one of the chairs and point to the other end of the couch, sitting down where I was earlier with my legs criss-crossed.

“What’s up?” I finally ask when he hasn’t said anything else.

He leans back, extends an arm over the back of the couch, and crosses his right leg over his left. I did a study on human behavior between books nine and ten and what their mannerisms mean but also how they sit when they’re nervous. He doesn’t appear nervous or on edge, rather relaxed and confident. “The list.”

“Yes, I heard mention of a list.”

He smirks and I blink, looking as innocent as I can manage. I’m so curious about the list, if I saw it sitting in his hands I’d rip it away from him, letting my eyes feast on it. Did he handwrite it? Would I get to see his manly penmanship? Or would he have just jotted it down in the notes app of his phone? How long is it? But most importantly, WHAT DOES IT SAY?

I’m the picture of calm, cool, and collected even though inside me is screaming to know the truth. What does OwenI don’t know his last namethink of me?

“Would you like to see the list?”

I shrug. Not a care in the world. Show me the list or not, I don’t care either way. I promise. Now I should probably check to make sure my pants aren’t on fire after lying to myself.

“Sure,” I finally admit halfheartedly.

He smirks again. He knows I’m a liar but I won’t come clean. He doesn’t need to hear that I’m curious. What human being wouldn’t be? It’s not as if what he said was eventhatbad. It just… triggered something inside me. Brought up ugly memories and I was in a good and happy place. Content in no longer worrying over my turd of an ex-husband. Life was good. Then the same words that hurt me so deeply once upon a time, punctured a part of me that I’d sutured long ago. It wasn’t just a sting. It was a throbbing, gaping ugly gash. Owen reopened old wounds without knowing it.

He digs in his front pocket and pulls out a piece of paper.

He wrote them down.

By hand.

Wow.

“Here’s the deal.” He leans forward, holding the folded piece of paper in his hands. He’s looking down at it rather than at me.

“Before I hand this over to you, I want you to know something about myself.” He raises his head and turns, looking me straight in the eye. His hazel eyes are so vibrant, unique. Green flecks throughout with a rim around the outside that’s so dark, it’s almost black. But there’s a quality I see in them — sadness, maybe? I’m not sure if that’s it exactly.

“What is it?”

“I’m not that person. The one you heard in the hallway, I mean. If anything, that’s about as opposite of who I am as I can get. I know what I said about you was wrong. I also know it was uncalled for and rude. I do apologize. It’s not the way I see you. A big part of me was protecting myself.”

“From?”

“You.”

“Me?” My question comes out barely above a whisper.

He blows out a breath and sits back against the couch, slouching down so his head is level with the top of the cushion. He lolls his head to the side so he’s facing me and his eyes look almost golden. “I don’t open myself up to people easily. Or, actually, that’s not entirely true. It’s not that it’s not easy for me, it’s that I make no effort to do so.” Owen’s finger does a little circle around him, pointing out the cabin we’re sitting in. I get his meaning. He likes being alone in the woods.

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