Page 37 of Caught in the Axe
The rest of my outfit—black heels, blazer, and pearls—was the definition of business appropriate. I’d hoped the blazer would hide the too tight skirt, but maybe I was wrong.
Though, on closer inspection, his slack-jawed expression hadn’t been one of judgment. Oh no. Those wide eyes and open mouth were all desire. A small fizzle of pride had shot through me. He was looking at me like I’d just slid down a pole wearing nothing but a diamond G-string. The business bitch look worked for him. I’d file that tidbit away for the future.
I wonder if he likes garters.
God, we hadn’t even left Lovewell yet, and I was already speculating about his lingerie preferences. Hence the thick fog of awkwardness that had enveloped us the second both doors were closed.
I’d wanted to flirt—still did—to smile and toss my hair and get a rise out of him. But no matter how natural it felt, I wouldn’t. Not after he’d made his stance on what was happening between us clear. So I’d taken a deep breath andgraciously accepted the coffee. Then I’d made sure my mental filter was firmly in place.
We chatted briefly about strategy, and I pulled out the copies I’d made of our updated spreadsheets. But mostly we sat side by side, listening to classical music while Owen drove south.
After a while, the silence was killing me. I could barely sit still, and words were clawing their way up my throat. Questions, observations, anything to break the uncomfortable silence.
Over and over, I’d found myself checking him out from the corner of my eye. He was gripping the steering wheel tight, his knuckle straining, his hands making the leather creak as he readjusted his hold. For the first time, I really studied those hands. Those verylargehands.
“How tall are you?” I blurted out. Owen might have been on the small side for a Hebert, but he was still a giant compared to most.
He turned and hit me with a confused frown. “Six-two. Why, how tall are you?”
“Five-seven.”
“Okay, now that we’ve established that, my blood type is A positive. Do you want my social security number too?”
My face heated and a wave of shame washed over me. God, I had the conversational skills of a hamster.
“Sorry,” I said, lowering my head to hide the blush I was sure had overtaken my face. “I was just curious. Your whole family is so tall.”
“I’m the shortest.” He snorted, like beingonlysix-two was some kind of shortcoming.
Cole was six-six, and his height made it impossible tobuy clothes at a regular department store. Shoes were an issue too. Hell, even some cars were too small for him to fit into without having to crane his neck or hunch down.
I kept those thoughts to myself, relatively certain that comparing the brothers wouldn’t go over well.
Owen was the perfect height. He was broad but lean. Like a swimmer.
Just my type, a weird little voice in my head said. Weird. And wrong. I didn’t have a type. I hadn’t been attracted to anyone in so long, and when that ability finally resurfaced, it had to be because of this man, a man I couldn’t have.
He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel to some kind of pretty music. “You like classical music?” I asked.
He nodded. “Not always, but it relaxes me. You?”
“Yes. Ten years of piano lessons, so I’ve got a basic appreciation.”
He raised a brow and regarded me. “That’s impressive.”
“Not really. I’m not very good.” I clasped my hands in my lap and shrugged. “My mother really wanted that to be my talent. The girls who are musical get a lot of respect from the judges. But I was better at dance, so we stuck with that.”
He nodded. “Did you enjoy it? All the pageant stuff?”
I considered his question for a moment before plastering on my best smile and sitting up impeccably straight. “I’m proud to have competed in pageants. I learned valuable leadership skills, developed self-discipline, and discovered my unique abilities and talents.”
He turned his head slowly, his brows raised high. “Okay…”
I let the smile fall. It was amazing how out of practice I was. My cheeks hurt already. “The real answer is much morecomplicated.” With a sigh, I slumped back in my seat. Miss Barbara, my coach, would smack me in the head if she saw my shameful posture.
“We’ve got time,” he said, turning the volume down.
How could I explain it to him? For my entire life, I’d been on the outside. My mom and I were looked down on, the image of a family no one would ever dream of having. So she clung to the perfection of pageants. The smiles and sequins and talk of empowerment. As if pretty clothing and fake smiles would make us better. Elevate us beyond the label she’d been given in this small town.
