Page 41 of Far From Sherwood Forest
If I thought he looked like a kicked puppy before, it’s nothing compared to now. It’s crazy how I can see the hope in his eyes die.
Why the hell would hewantit to happen again? I’ve hurt him and hunted him, shot him and made him bleed. I’ve given him more than enough reasons to hate me. I’d much rather him hate me.
“Henry?” he says again when I start to leave once more.
“What?” I ask, exasperated andverytempted tomakehim shut up again.
“Are you staying in Colorado?”
I consider how to answer his question because I honestly haven’t thought much about it. I have no fucking clue what I’m doing about any goddamn thing. So I decide I can give him something resembling the truth.
“For now. I haven’t quite decided if I’m done with you yet. So you should probably watch your back, little thief.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, and I swear I watch as that hope sparks back to life.
Ireallyhave to get the fuck out of here.
As I open the door and step outside, I’m surprised he actually lets me go this time.
Surprised.Notdisappointed.
The last of the leaves gave up sometime in November. The mountains had their first real dusting of snow by then—just a whisper at first, barely clinging to the pines above the treeline. But once the temperatures dipped for good, it started coming down in earnest.
John and I were invited to Thanksgiving dinner with Lucas and his family up at the ranch house like usual. Brian and Spencer were there too. When December slowly rolled in, so did the heavy, gray skies and that dry cold that scrapes at your skin. While the town lit up with Christmas lights and fake icicles, I spent the week of Christmas feeling like I was on my deathbed.
It happens. More often than I’d care to endure, but I deal with it. It was all I could do to stop John from fussing over me.
January is coming to a close, and Henry and I haven’t had any real interactions in months. I’ve seen him around town—at the grocery store and at the bar a few times. Every time I run into him, I barely resist the urge to approach him and talk to him. He’s always by himself, and I hate the thought that he still feelsalone.
I watch him sometimes, remembering that ache in my chest after he walked away from me the last time we were in the forest, and then remembering the way his eyes fluttered at my touch the last time we really spoke. My eyes linger on him while he’s not looking, and I find myself wishing the distance between us was gone.
But the scowls he still gives me keep me away. I guess it was too much to hope we were over all of that when he came to me at the ranch that day.
However, the one thing his continued disdain for me doesn’t stop me from doing is wanting him. Wanting a repeat of that day in the woods. Wanting more than that. Just wantinghimany way I can have him.
I think it’s safe to say I’m bisexual.
Even though I had never really thought about being with a man before, I think a switch in my brain might’ve flipped when I saw Henry in those tight jeans. I can admit to myself now that he looked damn good. Hedoeslook damn good. Tall. Thick thighs. Broad shoulders. A beard I wouldn’t mind feeling against my face or between my legs or anywhere else. Not to mention the way he used me just as intensely as he hates me.
Fuck, he’s hot.
However, it’s clear he doesn’t want me back, that he’s sticking to his claim that nothing will ever happen between us again. Maybe I should move on, especially now that I have more options.
But…I don’t want just anyone.
As ridiculous as it may be, I can’t stop myself from wanting Henry.
There’s something else about him that draws me in that I can’t quite put my finger on. There’s so much more beneath that damn near impenetrable exterior than he lets show. I saw bitsand pieces of it when he finally opened up to me and told me the real reason he still hates me after all this time.
I want to seemore.
I want to gently draw him out, break open his shell and see what’s really inside. But even if there’s any hope of doing that, it wouldn’t happen overnight. Like planting a seed and waiting for it to break through the soil, test the ground, and reach out tentative roots, searching for safety and warmth.
But I can’t be that for him.
No matter how much time and space I give him, I don’t know if he’ll ever let go of everything he’s holding onto. Meanwhile, I forgave him probably a bit too easily when he told me he was the one who killed my father. Maybe I should have stayed mad at him and used that as an excuse to hate him as much as he hates me. But holding a grudge just isn’t like me. Not anymore.
Part of me really wants to go up to him the next time I see him and tell him to get his head out of his ass.
