Page 28 of When We Met

Maybe I should have let her stay in the bunkhouse.

No. Fucking. Way.

With a capital F!

KACY

What the fuck was I thinking? I know who he is. It’s obvious. How in the world did I manage to run into him out of all the places I could have crashed into a deer?

Oh, right, I wasn’t. But have you ever heard the sound of someone’s voice and have your knees weaken?

I have now. In Tara’s husband. Ex-husband? No, he refuses to sign the papers, so definitely still married. I wonder if he knows about her getting engaged. Or that she’s desperate to tie the knot with the actor dude that she’s sent the papers back three times in the last few months. All the while, Barron refuses.

I should tell him that I know who he is, that his wife’s the biggest bitch in Brentwood, but knowing I won’t be staying long, leads me to believe I shouldn’t. What’s a little white lie from a girl that’s not planning on staying in this town?

He has kids, for Christ’s sake. I should keep my mouth shut and not invade his privacy.

So I remain quiet as he puts his kids to bed for what he tells me is the second time tonight, and hands me a blanket, a pillow, and warmth I hadn’t expected from someone like him. I think I had in my head that he’d be just as cold and aloof as Tara, but he’s not. There’s a kindness to his eyes, a gentleness with his kids, and the way he looks at me, well, I know what a man does when he’s attracted to a woman, and I bet if I climbed on top of him, he’d have no complaints.

After returning his jacket to him, my body smells like him—leather, smoke, grease, all things southern and manly.

Damn it. Of all the places I could have crashed my car, why’d it have to be his shop?

Sighing, I peer out the large windows in what appears to be his living room. It’s a nice house. Nicer than I would have expected by the way Tara made him out to be some kind of country boy living in the sticks. A grand floor-to-ceiling stone fireplace draws my attention to the middle of the room as the rest of the home seems built around it. A dwindling fire cracks in the background, the orange flame captivating, giving almost a serene feel with the snow falling in the distance.

“The couch isn’t all that comfortable.” His presence behind me startles me, and I jump at the sound of his voice. “But it’s better than a cold shop.”

I turn to face him, digging my hands into the back pockets of my jeans. “Does it usually snow like this?” I ask, trying to make conversation and ease the awkwardness.

He shakes his head but doesn’t make eye contact with me. “Not usually like this, but every once in a while, a storm rolls through.”

“Like tonight,” I note, smiling. I take in his facial features holding my attention. Dark hair that’s matted to his head from his beanie. High cheekbones, straight nose, strong, defined jaw. Like a Southern, bulkier version of James Dean with a scruffy face and mysterious dark eyes. He has the look Hollywood tries for, but he has effortlessly.

He motions me forward and into his kitchen, where he’s holding a wet towel and a first-aid kit beside him. Knocking his knuckles on the counter, he smiles. “Let’s take a look at that cut.”

My heartbeat dips. “Oh, I’m fine. It’s just a scratch.”

He stares at my forehead, squinting as if he’s trying to exam it from a distance. “I’d still like to look at it.”

“Well.” I stop short of the kitchen island, feet from him. “I’d like to look at you naked, but that’s not going to happen tonight.”

Shit. I said that out loud.

He snorts or coughs, I’m not sure which, but the warmth in his cheeks tells me he hasn’t met anyone like me. Recovering just as quickly, he winks, a deep laugh rumbling his chest. In that second, it’s as if the air changes around us. “Let’s start with cleaning this up,” he says softly, invading the space where I’m standing and leading me toward the better lighting near the sink.

Closer to him, I resist the urge to bury my head in his chest and let the soft cotton of his flannel carry me away.

Wiping his hands on his jeans, he takes the cloth and touches it to my forehead. “Sorry if it burns.”

“It’s fine,” I grit through the sting, but don’t let on. Our eyes lock, heat rises up my chest, neck, and finally my cheeks. Hell, even the tops of my ears join in.

“Does it hurt?” He pins me with his dark eyes. I squirm. Hello, country boy. Fuck, I was missing out back home.

I watch his every move. “No. I think it’s numb.”

He holds my head in his hands, and I sigh. All out sigh and relax. “It doesn’t look like you’re going to need stitches or anything. Just a Band-Aid.” He drops his hands from my face and turns slightly toward the counter. Turning, he grins, and it’s fucking magnificent. “And it looks like I have Elsa or Sponge Bob.”

“I’m an Elsa fan.” I laugh, smiling. Everywhere I look are photographs of the two girls in his life, their sweet drawings, and photographs of them with him. In Tara’s home and her words, there’s not a single mention of these girls, even though I know for a fact she’s their mother. Despite knowing this, I say, “You’re young to have kids.”

---