“You’re not going to give me the whole when-you-have-kids-of-your-own-one-day speech, are you?”
Brandon twirled his keys around. “Depends on whether or not you plan on having kids.”
“Oh,” was all she said.
His brown eyes stared down at her. “Do you?”
She blinked. “Do I what?”
The curling of the mouth came back. “Plan on having kids.”
She puffed out a long breath. “That would require a man, which I don’t have, so…”
“But you don’t have to have a man to want kids,” he pointed out.
She wagged a finger at him. “But you said ‘plan.’ That’s different than want. Of course I want kids, but I don’t plan on having them any time soon, because…” She waved her hand in a circular motion.
“Because you don’t have a man in your life?”
She grinned at him. “I knew you were more than just a pretty face.”
His eyes narrowed. “You think I’m pretty?”
“You don’t like being called pretty?”
“There isn’t a man on Earth who likes being called pretty. Pretty is for girls and men who wear skinny jeans and fedoras.”
“And you wouldn’t be caught dead in a fedora. Is that right?”
“Not really my style, no.”
“And what is your style?”
Brandon paused before answering. “This is a strange conversation.”
She offered him her own smile. “That’s because normal is boring.” Now she really sounded like her mom.
“Actually, normal is not boring,” he argued. “Normal is nice.” He gestured toward her knee. “Having a better day today?”
Okay, change of conversation. She could take a hint. She glanced down at the bandage-free knee and managed to hold back a grimace at the ugly scars marring her skin. “Slightly. Still hurts though.”
“What do you do to help with the pain?”
She lifted her shoulders, wishing the conversation had stayed on him. “I work with Annabelle sometimes, but other than that, there isn’t much I can do.”
“You’re not one of those all-natural girls who doesn’t believe in medicine, are you?”
The questions were all over his whiskey-colored eyes. And, yeah, there was a story behind her reluctance to take pain pills. But nothing that she was willing to share with him right now.
“I just try to go without them if I can,” she told him.
“Trying to be independent?”
“Independent from what?”
He took a step closer, crowding her, and it took all of her breathing techniques and will power not to step back. “Things that make you dependent.”
Stella steeled her features, trying with all her might not to allow the surprise to flash across her eyes. She didn’t need him knowing how close to the truth he was. She didn’t need him knowing how her mother had gone through a rough patch and had become addicted to Vicodin after a breakup with one of her many boyfriends. Stella had watched helplessly as her mother had become a slave to pills she hadn’t even needed in order to get over the heartbreak from a man who wasn’t worth the time of day.
But she hadn’t known. Gloria had no clue the guy she’d mourned the loss of had violated her only daughter.
Not rape. It had never gone that far. But Stella’s sense of trust and security, when the bastard would “accidentally” grab one of her boobs, had been breached. Over the five months he’d dated her mother, the asshole’s “innocent” encounters had become not so innocent. Going from accidentally brushing up against her to cornering her in the kitchen one night and shoving his tongue down her throat. For a fifteen-year-old girl, it had been traumatizing. Especially since it had been her first experience with a kiss.
After that, the thought of any man putting his hands on her made her skin crawl. Just the very idea of any human being, especially one she didn’t know, getting close enough to feel their breath or the brush of their skin sent her into a panic.
She blinked and focused on Brandon’s statement. Yeah, she didn’t like being involved with things that made her dependent, be it men or pills. Which is why she chose not to take anti-anxiety medication.
And that included Brandon West.
When she got a whiff of his aftershave, probably something named Orgasm in a Bottle, she stepped back.
The confusion must have shown on her face, because Brandon took another step toward her, until her back hit the shelves where her stereo was. “Are you okay?” he asked.
He’s not trying to crowd you.
Yeah, she knew that. It was nothing more than his male instinct to protect. To find the problem and fix it, as all males were inclined to do. And Brandon wouldn’t back down until he figured her out. But she didn’t want him figuring her out. She didn’t want him to know what had really happened to her, because then he’d take it upon himself to help her. To protect her from herself, and she was just fine the way she was, thank you very much.
“I’m fine,” she said. A little too quickly.
He held his hands up, a gesture she recognized as his way of backing off. “Sorry. Sometimes I forget.”
“It’s okay,” she blurted out. Yeah, what? “I mean, I’m fine. You don’t have to be afraid to get too close to me.”
Yeah, just keep on spitting out those lies.
He narrowed his eyes as though he didn’t believe her. Smart man. “Why don’t I believe you?”
“What do you mean?” she queried as though she were all cute and innocent. The truth was, she was neither.
“Just that I can’t figure you out,” he answered. “One minute you act as turned on as I am, and the next you’re throwing out all these back-off signals.” He shook his head. “You’re like a Rubik’s Cube.”
She let the turned on comment slide. “Did you just compare me to a child’s toy?”
He stared at her for a moment. “Actually, now that I think about it, a Rubik’s Cube might be easier to solve. So what’s his name?”
“Who?” Even though she knew damn good and well what he was talking about.
“The asshole who did this to you,” he stated.
She swallowed, which sounded like the stereotypical, audible gulp in her ringing ears. “Why, are you going to go kick his ass for me?” The question was meant to come off as light. Joking. Because that’s what she did best. But the quavering in her voice probably gave her away. How long had it been since she’d talked about it? To someone who’d listen? To someone who’d see through the concrete wall she’d built between herself and everyone else?
Brandon wasn’t that person.
Yes, he is.
She thought he was; she just didn’t want him to be. She didn’t want to open that box and expose the ugliness that had haunted her for so many years. Because what would he think of her? What would he think of the girl who’d been too scared to knee the shithead in the balls? What would he think of the girl who’d been too frightened to tell her own mother? No, it was better for him to think she was the fearless, independent woman who’d practically bullied him into ballet lessons.
Yeah, that was better.
“That was a hypothetical, by the way,” she clarified. Lie, lie, lie.