Page 28 of How You See Me
He stares me down with dark, doubtful eyes, teasing to take my mind off the memories. I wish I could find the lingering glance amusing to keep my body from melting. But muscles liquefy. Taut nerves loosen and fizzle out. My blood turns to lava. It’s pathetic how little he has to do to get a rise out of me.
“Would you like more evidence before we start cohabitating?” I manage to keep the friendly banter going. That’s easier. Safer.
“Not necessary.” He digs into the casserole again. “But I heard you have some other fears. Should I know about those?”
“You’re going to regret asking that.” I nibble on a little stalk of broccoli to give him time to backtrack, but he waits, patient and annoyingly steady. Just once, I’d like him to quiver for me.
“You already know about my public restroom phobia.” I hold up a finger when his mouth drops open to ask the question everyone has. “I don’t know where it came from. I just don’t like them. The confined space, the germs, the unknowns, the movies.”
An authentic chuckle pops out of him, surprising us both, and I like it way too much.
“What do movies have to do with it?”
“Think about it. How many have you seen with horrific bathroom scenes?”
His fork drops to the plate. “You’re right.”
“I know.”
He grins, altering the temperature in the room. Something so tiny shouldn’t make me sweat, but holy funnel cake, I’m boiling. My hand twitches, needing to fan my flushed face.
“What else?” he asks, getting back to eating. Guess I'm the only one overheating in here.
“I’m afraid of heights but don’t mind skyscraper windows—so long as I’m inside and not on a balcony. You can get thrown off a balcony.”
“You can get thrown out of a window, too.”
“But my frame wouldn’t break the glass. I’d just bounce off.”
His eyes drift over me before he checks himself. I don’t usually welcome that look from men. That hungry greed to explore and tame. It’s degrading, like I’m some unchartered territory needing to be conquered.
But coming from Hayes, it doesn’t make me want to shrink or disappear. In the words of Shania Twain, I feel like a woman. A beautiful, cherished, and protected woman.
“I think you watch too many horror movies,” Hayes says, bringing me back to our conversation.
“Maybe. Another one is the color yellow. I hate it.”
He taps the mustard-color serving dish on the counter. “Then, why do you have a whole set?”
“Nora got them for me. She enables my antiques addiction.” I wave a hand toward the living room. “All that came from her when her mom got divorced, so I didn’t have the heart to tell her the color makes me gag.”
“Do you still paint with it and eat yellow food even though you hate the color?”
“Yeah. I’m notthatcrazy.” I laugh, though I doubt it helps to convince him. Even I can hear the wicked undertones.
“What’s your favorite color?” he asks, unfazed.
Maybe I’ve underestimated him.
“I like them all,” I answer, “but I always come back to cool tones—blues, purples, grays.”
“Hmm. Not what I would’ve guessed.”
I watch him, loving how he’s talking and relaxing. It gives me hope that the sweet side I experienced in the hospital is still there under all that crustiness.
“Really?” I lean an elbow on the counter to face him. “What did you expect?”
He pauses chewing to meet my gaze. “Yellow.”
