“Always wanted to get a look at your plumbin’, Gin.”
Her lips parted in surprise before she huffed in annoyance, turning her back to Cain as she stomped back into the cottage. But one, he could have sworn he saw her lips tilt up before her show of pique, and two, she left the door open.
Chuckling softly—because, Lord, the woman knew how to hold a grudge—he followed her inside, noting that she stood in the far, far corner of the tiny room—as far away from sink as possible. She gestured to it with an open palm. “It’s clogged.”
Setting his father’s toolbox down on the floor, he took a moment—stole a short moment—to look at her.
She wasn’t very tall, maybe five-foot-five inches, just tall enough for her head to nestle perfectly under his chin. Her blonde hair was up in a ponytail again, but she wasn’t wearing her glasses from Monday night. She didn’t wear makeup either, not that she needed any: naturally she was, hands down, the prettiest girl he’d ever seen, and he’d seen a lot of what the world had to offer. Her yellow T-shirt was scoop-necked and hugged her perfect size B tits like a fucking dream, and her jeans, standard Levi’s, cupped her rounded ass like they’d been custom-made. Her waist was trim, hips narrow, and Cain knew her legs were probably even more toned now than they’d been three years ago. She was a fucking work of art, this woman. An angry work of art, he amended when his eyes skated back up her body.
“You done?” she sniped.
“Are you?” he countered, noticing the way she’d been ogling his chest before meeting his eyes.
“So full of yourself.”
And that was it. He just couldn’t bear her rancor anymore. He owed her an apology, and by God, she was going to get one.
“Princess,” he drawled, taking a step toward her, “I know I was an ass to you once upon a time, but I swear I’ve changed.”
“You seem the same,” she murmured, though her face softened with uncertainty. She licked her lips unconsciously, and he knew—beyond any shadow of doubt—that she was suddenly remembering their kiss in as much detail as he was.
“I’m sorry, Gin,” he said tenderly, taking another step toward her. “I’m so fuckin’ sorry I stood you up that night.”
She clenched her jaw, and though her eyes were severe, they flooded with tears as she stared back at him. “You hurt me bad, Cain.”
He nodded. “I know. I’m sorry.”
“Why didn’t you say anythin’ before now? Why didn’t you ever write to me, Cain?” she asked, taking a step in his direction, closing the distance between them.
“Because you weren’t my girl.”
“I was. I wanted to be.”
His arms, appendages he’d warned not to open to her under any circumstances, spread wide, and Ginger stepped forward, her forehead landing on the bare skin of his neck as he embraced her, holding his breath and closing his eyes. The bony angles of her teenage body had rounded into womanhood, and as she clasped him to her body, her curves cradled his muscles.
And all thoughts of Mary-Louise Walker, and every other female creature, were banished from his mind. Cain had known a lot of women in his life—a fuckload of women—but no woman made his heart race, made his breath catch, made his insides a trembling mess of longing like Ginger McHuid. His chemistry with her, ever since her twelfth birthday, had been catastrophic and unmatched, and holding her now was no fucking different at all. If anything, they were both mature adults now, and Cain was hotter and needier than ever.
“I’ve missed you, princess,” he muttered into her hair, pressing his lips to the citrus-scented golden strands. “I fuckin’ missed you.”
“Cain,” she sobbed, and he felt the moisture of her tears against his skin, sliding between his pecs, baptizing him with her sorrow. “I missed you too.”
“I dreamed of you, Gin.”
“Every night,” she murmured, her lips touching down on the exposed V of his chest and making him shudder. Christ. More.
“Ginger, I . . .”
“Cain, I’m yours.”
You staked your claim years ago.
She’s yours.
Woodman.
He froze, his hands lifting from her back as he took a sudden step away. She swayed slightly, unprepared for the loss of his body against hers. He reached out and put his hands on her shoulders to steady her and took a deep breath, willing his body not to react to her nearness.
“Ginger . . .” He swallowed over the lump in his throat and offered her a neutral smile as he uttered words he’d never before in his life said to a woman. “I just want us to be friends, Gin. Just friends, if that’s okay.”
“Friends,” she repeated dumbly, staring up at him in confusion.
He nodded, pulling his hands away from her now that she was standing on her own. “Yeah. Friends. We . . . we grew up together, Gin. We should be friends, not enemies, don’t you think?”
“Cain, I—”