wished it was that simple—even though it was far from that.
I tried to shove the thoughts down into the deep dark hole where I kept every hope buried, and followed her into a room I’d avoided since I checked in.
“No, please not this,” I said, stopping in the opened doorway.
Charlie fastened me with a look I’d quickly realized meant she would get her way—it was a half-pout half-smirk with eyes that sparked with the dare to deny her. My heart thudded against my chest and need ached in my core.
“What’s the matter?” She asked innocently.
I cocked an eyebrow at her. “This is worse than the library you took me to last week.” I glanced over her shoulder, my eyes grazing over the art room. “Pottery day? Seriously?”
“Why not?”
I stepped closer to her, inhaling her delicious strawberry scent. “Not really my thing.”
She spread her slim fingers—painted green today—in front of her face, ticking off facts. “Books aren’t your thing, punk rock isn’t your thing, baking isn’t your thing, and what was it?” She tilted her head, those green eyes exploring a mind I’d love to get a glimpse of. “Oh yes, spa day wasn’t your thing either.” She shoved the four fingers in my face before dropping her hand. “I’m beginning to think you don’t like anything, Justin.”
The words kicked me straight in the balls. Blake had said similar things to me in the past, but I wasn’t that man anymore. I knew it in my heart, in my soul. I was still a fucked sideways asshole with a habit I had to kick—but the man I’d been? The one who had broken Blake over and over again? I’d killed him that night—the night I woke the fuck up. I had drowned him. In vodka.
“Ready to give up on me?” I asked, forcing myself to stay present by focusing on Charlie’s green eyes which had flecks of gold in them when she turned her head the right way.
“Never. We’re just getting started.” She smiled at me, the look genuine and absolutely non-judging. It was refreshing, and I admired her determination. I hated to disappoint her.
Wow. I actually didn’t want her to think less of me. But how could I impress her when I barely knew how to impress myself?
“So,” she said, pointing over her shoulder. “Pottery.”
I smirked. “You want to reenact the scene from Ghost?” Blake had once made me watch the chick-flick. Swayze was decent but making out while making a pot? Seriously?
“The part where he dies?” She pursed her lips, and I hissed in mock pain.
“Ouch. Good to know what you’re working toward.” I shook my head.
A light clicked on behind her eyes, and she flashed me a wild grin. “Would it help?”
“What?” I asked, completely oblivious to the track she’d jumped on. “If you killed me?” She often spoke too fast or jumped subjects so quickly I had whiplash, but it was unique to her and something I had started to look forward to, chaotic as it was.
She licked her lips. “No. If I let you spoon me from behind, run your clay-wet fingers over mine…would you talk to me? Like you do with Thomas and the boxing?”
I snorted out a laugh, but the visual burned hot and pulsing in my mind. God, I’d love to know what she felt like, how she would move underneath my touch.
That couldn’t happen.
“No.” I shut that door as quickly as possible.
She sank on her heels, her shoulders dropping slightly. “It was worth a shot.”
“You were bluffing,” I said as I followed her inside.
“Was I?” She took a seat at an empty potter’s wheel, and I sank onto the one right next to her.
I stared at her, taking in every inch of her face, every smooth line, every hint of gold in her green eyes. Shit, I didn’t have a clue.
She burst out laughing then, reaching over to my wheel and flipping the switch. “Don’t think. Just let your hands do the work.” She motioned toward her own where one hand wrapped around a hunk of clay and the other scooped up water from a bucket between
I tried to shove the thoughts down into the deep dark hole where I kept every hope buried, and followed her into a room I’d avoided since I checked in.
“No, please not this,” I said, stopping in the opened doorway.
Charlie fastened me with a look I’d quickly realized meant she would get her way—it was a half-pout half-smirk with eyes that sparked with the dare to deny her. My heart thudded against my chest and need ached in my core.
“What’s the matter?” She asked innocently.
I cocked an eyebrow at her. “This is worse than the library you took me to last week.” I glanced over her shoulder, my eyes grazing over the art room. “Pottery day? Seriously?”
“Why not?”
I stepped closer to her, inhaling her delicious strawberry scent. “Not really my thing.”
She spread her slim fingers—painted green today—in front of her face, ticking off facts. “Books aren’t your thing, punk rock isn’t your thing, baking isn’t your thing, and what was it?” She tilted her head, those green eyes exploring a mind I’d love to get a glimpse of. “Oh yes, spa day wasn’t your thing either.” She shoved the four fingers in my face before dropping her hand. “I’m beginning to think you don’t like anything, Justin.”
The words kicked me straight in the balls. Blake had said similar things to me in the past, but I wasn’t that man anymore. I knew it in my heart, in my soul. I was still a fucked sideways asshole with a habit I had to kick—but the man I’d been? The one who had broken Blake over and over again? I’d killed him that night—the night I woke the fuck up. I had drowned him. In vodka.
“Ready to give up on me?” I asked, forcing myself to stay present by focusing on Charlie’s green eyes which had flecks of gold in them when she turned her head the right way.
“Never. We’re just getting started.” She smiled at me, the look genuine and absolutely non-judging. It was refreshing, and I admired her determination. I hated to disappoint her.
Wow. I actually didn’t want her to think less of me. But how could I impress her when I barely knew how to impress myself?
“So,” she said, pointing over her shoulder. “Pottery.”
I smirked. “You want to reenact the scene from Ghost?” Blake had once made me watch the chick-flick. Swayze was decent but making out while making a pot? Seriously?
“The part where he dies?” She pursed her lips, and I hissed in mock pain.
“Ouch. Good to know what you’re working toward.” I shook my head.
A light clicked on behind her eyes, and she flashed me a wild grin. “Would it help?”
“What?” I asked, completely oblivious to the track she’d jumped on. “If you killed me?” She often spoke too fast or jumped subjects so quickly I had whiplash, but it was unique to her and something I had started to look forward to, chaotic as it was.
She licked her lips. “No. If I let you spoon me from behind, run your clay-wet fingers over mine…would you talk to me? Like you do with Thomas and the boxing?”
I snorted out a laugh, but the visual burned hot and pulsing in my mind. God, I’d love to know what she felt like, how she would move underneath my touch.
That couldn’t happen.
“No.” I shut that door as quickly as possible.
She sank on her heels, her shoulders dropping slightly. “It was worth a shot.”
“You were bluffing,” I said as I followed her inside.
“Was I?” She took a seat at an empty potter’s wheel, and I sank onto the one right next to her.
I stared at her, taking in every inch of her face, every smooth line, every hint of gold in her green eyes. Shit, I didn’t have a clue.
She burst out laughing then, reaching over to my wheel and flipping the switch. “Don’t think. Just let your hands do the work.” She motioned toward her own where one hand wrapped around a hunk of clay and the other scooped up water from a bucket between
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