Page 45 of The Persistence of Thornes
“That’s what I said.” A ghost of a grin slips out this time, but I tamp it down quickly. Her suspicion is amusing, but it also breaks my heart a little. Time and time again, she shows me that she’s never even had the opportunity to rely on another person.
One day she’ll see she can count on me.
“Are you sure?”
I dip my chin. “I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t mean it.”
“All right.” She flashes me a small, grateful smile.
My chest warms, and I pocket that smile like I’m saving it for a rainy day.
“I’ll get them.” She takes off, bounding up the stairs and into the house. Her tiny shorts only make her toned legslook longer, and her simple tight-fitted black t-shirt shows off her trim waist and perfect curves.
Shaking thoughts of her body from my head, I slide into the car. I crank the engine and adjust the AC vents so they won’t blast in her face when she gets in. Minutes later, she appears with her bag slung crossways over her body and shuts the door behind her.
No brothers.
She opens the passenger door but doesn’t get in. Instead, she ducks her head and says, “They don’t want to go. Said they don’t care what I get them—which is really trusting on their part because I could get them Barbie supplies just to spite them. If you don’t want to go now, it’s okay. I can go by myself.”
Every time she makes a comment like that, my heart splinters a little more. Her natural reaction to shrug off any suggestion of help, to reject a notion before someone else can reject her, makes it obvious she’s never been able to count on another person.
“Hal?”
She blinks, those warm brown eyes of hers making my stomach dip. “Yeah?”
“Get in the fucking car.”
Surprised laughter bubbles out of her. “I didn’t know you were capable of curse words. You’re such a saint.” She slides onto the leather seat and shuts the door.
There’s no stopping the smile that splits my face. With the car in reverse, I press my hand to the back of her headrest and look over my shoulder. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to having a backup camera.
“Trust me, Halle”—I glance at her, then pull out onto the road—“I’m no saint.”
If she only knew the very unsaintly thoughts I’ve had about her.
As I put the car in drive, I swear there’s the briefest flash of desire heating her eyes. She hides it by focusing on her lap, fiddling with the frayed edges of her shorts.
As I pull away, I pass her my phone. “You can put whatever music you like on.”
“Seriously?” She holds my phone and side-eyes me. “Most men like to be in control of the music choices.”
I glance sideways at her. “I thought we’d established already that I’m not most men.”
She presses her lips together. A habit, I’ve realized. Maybe a conditioned response to keep her mouth shut. A response I want to put an end to.
“What’s your passcode?”
That simple question is enough to cause my shoulders to relax. She needs to let go more, especially if something as simple as being given the power to pick the music selection makes her nervous.
Halle is strong-willed and stubborn, yet surprisingly insecure at times. She’s a lesson in contradictions, with so many complex facets to her personality. From what I’ve seen, I could dig and dig and never get to the bottom of her well of trauma, but I’ll be damned if I’m not going to try.
“Don’t have one,” I answer.
She sighs, the sound one of resignation, like she knows she should’ve expected this answer. “Not like most men, got it.”
I keep my smile to myself.
A few minutes later, when the opening bars of a country love song play through the speakers, she peers over at me. “Is this okay?”
