Page 37 of Wrecked
I had no idea what I was expecting to find, but it definitely was not Brett standing in front of a massive blowtorch tinkering with something attached to a metal rod. The workshop looked like it could have been a barn at some point — if barns consisted of cement walls and steel doors.
I couldn't make out all the equipment in there, but some of the stuff looked familiar. Just before everything between Brett and I went south, he'd started looking into glass blowing. He'd spent hours and hours browsing through sites looking for the equipment he needed.
Judging by the three benches, two of them containing torches, and the array of contraptions around him, he'd found everything he'd been looking for.
He was so lost in what he was doing; I took the time to shamelessly ogle him. I'd always rolled my eyes at the parts in romance novels where the heroine just looked at the guy, and she turned to mush.
Until I met Brett Carter.
One look from him and my pulse was on fire, one lop-sided grin and my entire body turned into a furnace.
Still unaware of my presence, he balanced the rod on the bench before him and gripped the hem of his shirt to wipe the sweat from his face.
And, holy moly, I just about melted into a puddle when I was given an eyeful of his perfectly sculpted abs and that delectable V that disappeared into his low-slung jeans. I gulped down some much-needed air and chewed on my lip.
The man was all kinds of fine wrapped up in a package good enough to eat.
He paused mid-wipe and our gazes collided. My feet began to move and didn't stop until I was just a few inches from him. He let go of the shirt and took me in, in an agonizingly slow perusal. I felt every cell in my body come alive under his gaze.
"I thought you left?"
Tilting my chin and squaring my shoulders, I said, "You and I have unfinished business."
He raised an eyebrow. "Oh?" His eyes dropped to my mouth and then lower before returning to mine, unmasked heat simmering in them.
"Can we talk?" How I managed to ignore the tug low in my belly, and the warmth spreading through me, was anyone's guess.
Brett sobered in an instant and nodded. "We'll head inside in a minute." He then turned off the blowtorch and flicked a few switches.
"You're not going to close it?" I asked when he started for the cabin without shutting the doors to his workshop.
He glanced over his shoulder and shrugged, "No one here but us, Sweet—" the endearment died on his tongue, and he continued his trek inside. I took a fortifying breath and followed him.
"You wanted to talk, so talk," he spat as soon as I entered. His walls were back up, and I doubted whether I'd be able to break through them.
Still, I was going to try.
"I never had the chance to tell you this," I began. "Those pills, I only used them to help me study. You know how my dad was, and if I didn't get good grades, he would have disowned me. Although, in hindsight that wouldn't have been such a bad thing."
I shook my head and continued, "I wasn't some strung out druggie. College was harder than I thought it would be and I needed a little help."
"You should have told me."
A sardonic laugh bubbled up. "Yeah, you're probably right. I just loved you so much; I couldn't bear for you to look at me differently."
"Kenzie—"
"Why did you never reply to any of my letters?" I finally voiced the one question I needed an answer to most of all.
Deep frown lines creased his forehead, and even from where I was standing I could see he was biting down on his teeth. "What do you mean?" I barely heard the words through his clenched jaw.
I swallowed to ease the dryness in my throat. "I wrote to you every day," I cried. "Explaining how my dad had kept me from going to see you. I couldn't even make it past the gate, Brett!" I took a step forward. "But not once did you write back."
Gone were all my good intentions, I was angry too and, yeah, I hadn't made the right decisions but neither did he.
"You accused me of not having the decency to tell you things to your face, but all you did was lash out at me." My voice was rising. "You—" I stabbed my index finger in his direction. "—were no better than me."
He looked as if I had just slapped him across the face. "You wrote to me?"
