“So what?” I leaned back a tad, so I could see her face. “So what if one breaks?”
She glanced at my mouth, not quite frowning, and said nothing.
I traced my fingertips along the attractive line of her jaw. “If something breaks, we fix it. That’s what we do.”
“But it wouldn’t—” Shelly paused, swallowed, her attention moving back to her computer screen; her features painted with unmistakable longing as she studied the image of a blue and white teacup. “It wouldn’t be the same . . . if it broke.”
“So? Why’s everything need to stay the same? Change can be good.”
Her eyes came to mine finally, hitting me like twin missiles just below my rib cage. I took a deep breath to power through my body’s now familiar reaction to the weight of her regard.
Softening my voice, I leaned closer. “You can’t be worried about breaking things all the time, Shelly. Things are gunna get broke whether you want them to or not. And if you’re tiptoeing around, not buying teacups out of fear that they might someday break, then you’ll never know the joy of—of—”
“Of?”
I gave her my most serious of looks. “You’ll never know the joy of drinking tea from a real, bona fide, fancy-as-shit teacup.”
Now she was pressing her lips together and—good Lord—there was no mistaking the fact that she was trying not to laugh. An answering grin had claimed my mouth before I could catch it, before I even realized I was doing it.
This was nice.
No, this was great.
Walking her dogs, eating dinner together, dancing around her little cabin and reading to each other until we passed out. Making love all night—especially the making love all night—waking up, seeing her first thing, drinking coffee, and looking at teacups.
Moments of quiet ordinary, made extraordinary by sharing them with the woman I love.
This was what I wanted. My stomach dropped at the thought—not with dread, but with apprehension. The moment of clarity, that I was falling in love with Shelly, and that it was entirely too soon to be in love with her, hadn’t diminished since yesterday. If anything, the certainty had taken root and grown, swelling into a conviction. And with the conviction came a verdict.
I was so screwed.
And so I hid behind a gulp of coffee and a banal comment. “You have no teacups?”
“No, but I have mugs.” She clinked our mugs together, still smiling at me, stealing my breath and capturing my heart. Again.
I had to clear my throat and look away before remarking, “Not quite the same thing, though.”
“No,” she agreed quietly. “It isn’t the same thing at all.”
* * *
I rushed through a shower and quickly dressed in the same clothes I’d worn the previous day, deciding to change at the shop instead of messing with going home first. We arrived at work within moments of each other. She drove her Buick, I drove my GTO. Shelly was already dressed in coveralls, so she opened the shop while I changed on the second floor.
When I came downstairs, I found her in the front office, just finishing up a phone call on the landline. She hung up as I entered, and then promptly crossed to me and handed me a key ring.
“What’s this?”
“These are the keys to my place, in case you need to come or go while I’m not there.”
I liked how she took for granted that I’d be spending the next few nights with her. And I was grateful. I wasn’t ready to go home yet. Being with her, in her little cabin of possibilities, was absolutely where I wanted to be.
We swapped smiles—mine large, hers small—and I couldn’t help myself. I stepped into her space, keeping my hands behind my back, and brushed my lips against hers.
Then I nibbled on her lip.
Then I covered her mouth with a coaxing kiss.
Then I leaned away.
She followed my retreat with her eyes, her stare like a hawk tracking a meal.
“You’re a good kisser.” It sounded like an accusation.
I shrugged, giving her a satisfied smile. “I practice.”
Her gaze sharpened. “Oh?”
“Yes. With my pillow. And a watermelon that one time.”
Shelly’s shoulders started to shake before she allowed her laughter to show with a grin, and all the while she shook her head at me. “I love that you make me laugh.”
“Good. Because I love making you laugh.” Unable to help myself, I traced my fingertips along her hairline, to her temple, then behind her ear. “By the way, I can’t believe I’ve never asked you this.”
“What?” She curled her hand around mine and brought it to her lips, kissing my knuckles, softly, slowly, one at a time.
It was such an affectionate gesture, I could only stare at her while she did it, unable to complete my thought.
“Beau?”
“Sorry, yes.” I cleared my throat, shaking myself. “Uh, phone.”
“Phone?”
“You don’t have a cell phone?”
“No. I . . . I can’t.” She held my hand between both of hers.
“Okay. No worries. Do you have a home phone?”
“Yes.” She entwined the fingers of her right hand with mine, then reached for the pen and paper on the main counter with her left. “I’ll write it down for you.”
The sound of tire on gravel had both of us turning our heads toward the lot. Duane had just pulled up and was parking his Road Runner next to my GTO.
I frowned at the sight of him as he exited his car, because he was scowling at my car. Then he turned his glare to the garage, as though searching for something.
Or someone.
A ball of guilt hovered at the top of my chest, and I straightened my spine to try and ease it.
“You should talk to your brother.”
Shelly’s statement had me looking at her.
She was studying me with warmth and concern. “He’s angry at you and you love him. So his anger has to bother you on some level.”
“You think I should tell him? About Christine?”
“I have no idea. I don’t fully understand what’s going on with that situation. But I do trust you. You should trust yourself.”
I gave her a grateful smile and squeezed her hand before letting it go. Turning for the side door, I walked through the garage and waited for him at the entrance. His scowl intensified as soon as he saw me, and as soon as he was three feet away, he stopped.
“Hello, Beauford.”
“Duane.”
His jaw ticked. “You need something?”
“I guess I need to apologize, again, for avoiding you. I’ve been dealing with some shit and I’m trying to get it sorted. So, I’m sorry.”
He blinked once, slowly. “Something wrong?”
“Yes. Something is wrong.”
“What?”
“I can’t tell you.”
My twin released a slow sigh and he glanced over my shoulder, shaking his head. “I see.”
“No. You don’t. It’s not like that. I have things going on—with Shelly, with myself—and it’s not that I don’t want to tell you, it’s that I’m just not ready to talk about it. Make sense?”
Duane eyeballed me, his scowl melting into a thoughtful frown. After a long moment he nodded, his voice quiet as he said, “Yeah. That makes sense.”
“Good.”