Page 38 of Make Mine Sweet
Nodding, she swallows hard and wrings her hands, fingers trembling. Her shakiness sends my heart into the depths of the abyss. I don’t like that she’s this nervous about whatever it is she has to say. I hate even more that it’s well deserved—aside from the blip yesterday, she’s been nothing but friendly to me, and I haven’t given her the same kindness in return.
Why, exactly, again? So I can prove I’m mad at the world because my career’s over? The same reason I’ve pushed away my brothers, Amy—even Nathan Bridger last night. Seeing her this anxious about facing me has guilt churning through my stomach. Is this really the man I want to be? The one who scares everybody away?
I cross my arms, trying to relax my stance. But that just makes me look like I’m looming over her, so I uncross them again and slip my hands into the pockets of my sweatpants. Nice and casual. Or as close as I can get when she’s about to say whatever she has in mind.
“I wanted to apologize for how I acted yesterday.” Her words tumble out fast as if she’s rehearsed this once or twice. “I was thoughtless and…well, I shouldn’t have behaved like that or said those stupid things to you. I’m sorry for making you uncomfortable.”
She’s sorry for makingmeuncomfortable? She’d been so quick to get out of my sight, I thought it’d been the other way around. My mouth drops open—not sure what I might even say—but she continues.
“I was caught off guard, and I shouldn’t have stared the way I did.” Her gaze dips, but it doesn’t go down to my leg. It snags on my chest and arms. In an instant, she snaps her eyes back to mine. “It was offensive, and I’m embarrassed by my behavior. I’m really sorry.”
“You don’t have to keep saying you’re sorry.” In the two years since my accident, loads of people have stared at my prosthetic leg. Said dumb things. Asked invasive questions. But the number of people who have apologized afterward is exactly zero. “I could have handled it better.”
Silently staring at her, expecting her to run off the way I’d wanted to, didn’t improve the situation.
She slashes a hand through the air. “That wasn’t your fault at all. I was completely in the wrong. I kept ogling you and spouting off at the mouth like a schoolgirl. That was all on me.”
“It wasn’t—” Wait.Wait. “You were ogling me?”
Are we having two different conversations right now? I thought she’d stared out of shock and maybe disgust, not any sort of appreciation. This news lights a spark of pride in me—probably worse than pride, if we’re being honest—that I haven’t felt in years.
Her cheeks flame a delightful rose right before my eyes, her gaze shifting to the side. This confirms it even better than her words.
“The point is, I was rude, and I’m so sorry. I know what it’s like to have people point and stare, and I’m ashamed I did that to you.”
I want to go back to the ogling part, but a new question snares my attention. Why would anyone point and stare at Tess? Unless they’re saying, “Look at that gorgeous woman who makes cupcakes that taste like the nectar of the gods,” I can’t come up with a good reason. But now’s not the time to question her.
This is obviously taking a lot for her to admit. The fact that she’s being this vulnerable with me when I’ve been basically an ogre the entire time we’ve known each other means more than she can guess.
The pleading reflected in her eyes makes me want to meet her halfway, even if it feels like a vast chasm to cross. “I thought you were staring at my leg.”
It’s superficial and stupid, but a lot of people can’t get past it. They think a guy like me is damaged, or less than a man, orotherin some essential way. Truthfully, on some days, that call’s coming from inside the house. I’d hated to put Tess in that category, too, but maybe I got it all wrong.
She shakes her head a little. “No. It was—” One hand comes up to gesture at my chest, but she tucks it away behind her back. “I wasn’t staring at your leg. I was surprised, but I don’t care about that.”
Her apparent interest in my body generally and my chest specifically is taking this apology in an unexpected direction.
To be clear, I very much like the direction.
Her eyes widen, and she presses her palms to her cheeks. “I don’t meanIdon’t care, it’s just…that’s not the most important thing about you. You know?”
I’m tempted to ask whatisthe most important thing about me, but something else from that conversation hooks in my memory. “August said you’d told him I’m a pirate.”
In the moment, I’d assumed she’d made some kind of peg-leg crack to her kid. Now, it’s clear she’d genuinely had no idea. So where did that description come from?
I hadn’t imagined her face could get any pinker, but her skin is finding all new shades of red. The color washes from her cheeks to her temples and down her neck.
“Um, that was mostly about your hair.”
“Mostly?”
“And beard. It’s just so…” She reaches up almost as though she’s going to touch my hair. I still, wanting that small touch. Denying me, she stops herself at the last second and closes her hand into a fist, one finger out to point at my head. “I think it’s the man bun.”
My hair makes me look like a pirate? I might be discouraged by this news if she wasn’t so obviously embarrassed about admitting it. That blush is not the response of a disgusted woman. She’s not reeling back in horror. If anything, she’s leaning in.
“You don’t like the man bun?” I’ve resorted to it out of necessity, but even when my hair was shorter, I used to tuck it up like this sometimes. Now, I’m questioning that move.
Her gaze seems to warm as she glances my hair over.
