She could just imagine her mother’s pleasure to find Cain Wolfram screaming “ass” at the top of his lungs on her daughter’s doorstep, and she was not in the mood for her mother’s attitude this morning.
His eyes looked down at her, but he didn’t move, and it took another second for Ginger to realize that his lips were pressed to her hand. His mouth was open, and she could feel his warm breath against the skin of her palm. Staring up at him, she blinked and pulled her hand away.
“If you wanted me to kiss your hand hello,” he said, “you could have just asked.”
“Don’t be cute,” she said, fisting her hand to get rid of the lingering warmth on her skin and trying desperately to ignore the way her chest had fluttered when Cain drawled the word kiss.
“Okay,” he said evenly. “I won’t be cute today.”
For the first time, her eyes slipped from his face, and she realized that Cain wasn’t dressed in his usual jeans and Henley. Today, for the first time ever, she was seeing him in his uniform, and it fairly took her breath away.
He wore a navy blue top with three white stripes at the collar and another three at the cuffs, and a black, knotted neckerchief at his tanned, muscular neck. Her eyes traveled over his broad chest, and she raked her teeth over her bottom lip as her eyes dropped to the matching blue pants with a front flap fastened with thirteen buttons. On his feet he wore black formal shoes, buffed to a high shine, which touched her heart for some reason, imagining the time it had taken to get them that shiny. In his hand, he held a starched snow-white cap, which he lifted and placed on his stubbly black hair.
“I look okay?” he asked softly, his eyes uncharacteristically earnest.
She nodded, blinking back tears. The last time she’d seem someone in full service blues, it was . . . it was . . .
He’s not gone. He’s just away.
Her vision became blurry as she stared miserably at Cain’s chest, decorated with various pins and ribbons. He raised his arm and offered it to her, as though to formally escort her from the kitchen.
He’s not gone. He’s just away.
“No, thanks,” she said, refusing his arm as she finally exhaled and took another deep breath. “I’m only goin’ to this because you’re forcin’ me to.”
“Well, that’s too bad,” said Cain, stepping around her. His voice held a small but certain measure of censure as he added, “It’d be nice if you actually wanted to go.”
He preceded her out of the cottage and stopped at the passenger side of his father’s truck. He opened the door and held it for her, his eyes straight ahead, his body at full attention.
She felt mean, suddenly, for what she’d said, and flinched from the disappointment of his tone. But the feeling didn’t linger. Anger hip-bumped it to the side. She stepped over to the truck and climbed inside.
“Don’t judge me, Cain.”
He didn’t answer. He didn’t even look at her. He just slammed the door shut, walked around the truck, and sat in the driver’s seat without a word. He was giving her the silent treatment, and it infuriated her further.
“You know what I’ve been wonderin’? Why are you even here? Why haven’t you left yet? When the goin’ gets tough, Cain gets goin’. Why are you even still here?”
He looked at her with side eyes as they rolled down the driveway of McHuid’s. “Hell, princess, maybe I’m just stickin’ around to annoy you. You ever think of that?”
“Often,” she snapped.
Staring out the window, her lips twitched because, even though she’d said the words as bait, she found she actually wanted an answer. She adopted a gentler tone. “I mean it, Cain. I thought you left after the . . . the . . .” Somehow she couldn’t choke out the word funeral. “Why are you still here?”
He shrugged. “Promised my pop I’d stay through to Thanksgivin’.”
Ah. So he did have a departure date in mind. He wasn’t staying here forever.
It was the moment that Ginger realized that, however much Cain had hurt her in the past, she was very, very sorry to learn that he was going to leave again so soon. She didn’t know what to make of his sudden visits—the way he’d forced her to take a ride or to go to this wreath laying today. She didn’t like it, and yet some part of her—small though it was—had to admit that Cain was likely the only person who could have forced her out of her destructive style of mourning and back into the world. She didn’t want to depend on him, but she was comforted by his presence nonetheless.
And to her great surprise, her heart, which she’d been so certain was dead, flickered to life and ached at the thought of him walking out of her life yet again.
***