Page 44 of Wild Card
“No?” I ask, hefting the bag over my shoulder and trying not to gawk at her.
“Nah. Army brat. And the houses on base weren’t even close.”
“Mom or dad?”
She finally turns to face me. “In the military? My dad.”
“Impressive.”
Her head joggles, like she doesn’t quite agree with my assessment. “Almost as impressive as the depth of my daddy issues and the uniform kink my upbringing sent me out into the world with.”
She barks out a laugh, and I try not to choke on my own saliva. “Jesus, Gwen.”
Her responding laugh is light as she lifts a hand while placing the other over her chest. “Your Honor, I only speak the truth.”
I shake my head and turn away to lead her upstairs. It feels like I’m walking to the gallows because living under the same roof as Gwen Dawson is sure to be the death of me.
“Even this stairwell is nice,” she remarks from behind me. “Like the tiles on the face of the steps? The curve in the banister? It’s beautiful, Bash.”
“Thanks, I made them myself.” I glance over my shoulder when I finish the stairs, watching her dainty fingers flutter over the rounded woodwork at the top landing.
She doesn’t even look my way as she muses, “Goddamn, you must be good with your hands.”
We freeze in time, and I watch pink splotches pop up on her round cheeks as she slowly turns her head in my direction. Fuck, she’s so pretty, I can’t even stand it.
Eyes wide and pleading, she adds, “I mean, you must be handy.”
“I’m both.”
My molars clamp down hard and fast, as though that might help me take back the two words that slipped out all too easily. Too late. My gaze drops to her mouth, watching her lips part on a sharp intake of air. Her tongue drags over the seam as she slowly quirks one disbelieving brow at me.
I’ve had too many quiet days spent recovering thinking about her. And I hate it. I hate it because what I want to do is close this gap between us. Shove her up against the wall. Peel those tight fucking yoga pants off that perfectly round ass.
But I can’t.
And I hate it.
In fact, my desperate craving makes me hate myself a little bit too.
So, without another word, I walk down the hallway and drop her bag in the spare room—painfully close to mine. Then I leave her there to get settled before I can get myself into more trouble than I already am.
As I jog down the stairs, I promise myself I’m going to create some space between us.
It’s only when I reach the last step—a safe distance away—that I call back up, “Leaving for the hospital in an hour!”
“The energy in this truck is fuckin’ weird.” Clyde’s beady eyes bore into the rearview mirror from the back seat.
Gwen and I worked expediently to get Clyde formally discharged, coordinating with the porter to get him arranged in my truck. When there’s a task to do right in front of us, Gwen and I get shit done well enough.
But when you take the task away, the tension seeps back in. That’s probably what Clyde is referring to—the way we’re both sitting stiffly in the front like two kids forced to share a bench on the school bus.
Weird? Absolutely.
But not as weird as the drive to the hospital. That was one for the record books. Even my go-to ‘90s grunge playlist couldn’t quell the deafening silence between us. Gwen stared out the window, strumming her teeth over her bottom lip while Isqueezed the hell out of the steering wheel, trying to forget that I looked her in the eye and told her I’m good with my hands.
Right now, everything is much the same. Except Clyde is shit-talking us from the back like a snarky teenager.
“Just focusing on the road, Clyde. I’ve got precious cargo in the back seat,” I deadpan, drawing a snort from Gwen and an eye roll from the older man.
