When his father didn’t answer, he felt grateful. He needed the time alone to think.
Crossing the dark, quiet room, Cain took a K?lsch from the refrigerator and popped the bottle cap off, placing his lips on the icy glass and relishing the cold bubbles on the back of his throat as he leaned against the kitchen counter.
Finally lowering the bottle, he pulled his bottom lip into his mouth and clenched his eyes shut.
“Fuuuuuck!” he yelled into the silence, desperation and frustration ramping up until his heart pounded like he’d run a mile.
She was furious and hurt when she left.
And he was leaving in a few days.
Whatever window he had to fix this was swiftly closing, and if he didn’t go and talk to her now, it would be too late by the time he came home again. He’d practically pushed her into Woodman’s waiting arms, and with the two of them in Apple Valley together, proximity would assure that Cain lost any chance with her . . . forever.
“No!” he growled, taking another long sip from the bottle, then slamming it down on the counter.
He tore off his dirty T-shirt and threw it on the floor, unbuttoned his jeans, and headed for the bathroom. He turned on the shower and shucked off his boxers as he waited for the water to warm up, then he stepped inside, sighing as the hot water hit his weary muscles.
He had only four full days left at home before he was due back in Virginia, and he couldn’t bear the thought of spending those days avoiding Ginger when all he wanted was to reach for her, touch her, kiss her, love her, make enough memories with her to get him through the years ahead without her.
He soaped his chest, his fingers playing over the contour of muscle, wondering what it would feel like for Ginger’s soapy hands to slide over his skin. His cock twitched and swelled, remembering her eyes this afternoon. God, the strength it had taken for him to refuse her after that kiss—that scorching-hot fucking kiss. If he’d just taken when she was offering, by now, she would have been his. She would belong to him in every possible sense of the word. Leaning his forehead against the shower wall, he let the hot water sluice over his back, down his legs, until it ran clear of soapy bubbles and he was clean.
He wanted her. Fuck, how he wanted her.
“You can’t fuckin’ have her,” he muttered, shutting off the water and pushing the curtain aside. He plucked a clean towel from the pile on the back of the toilet, and as he dried his body he considered the changes in his cousin over the past few weeks.
Woodman was doing better now, wasn’t he? Sure, his full recovery would take some time, but he was working at the firehouse and his spirits had improved. He was shaving, taking care of himself. No more talk about life not being worth living.
Cain huffed as he pulled on some fresh boxers. No, the fucking timing was not fucking ideal, but if Ginger wanted him and he wanted Ginger, there had to be a way to make that happen, right? He could lay his cards on the table, get Ginger to forgive him for the hurtful things he’d said today, and then they could talk to Woodman about everything together. They could explain everything, couldn’t they? Put it in a way that would soften the blow, but still help him understand?
Pulling on some jeans, he tried the words.
“Josiah, we need to . . . um, no.” He tried again. “Josiah, here’s the thing: I know how you feel about Ginger, but I feel the same. No. I feel . . . fuck, I feel like I . . . fuuuuck!” he yelled, zipping and buttoning his pants. He ran a hand through his wet hair. “Okay. Woodman, we need to talk to you . . . No. Fuck. Okay . . . Woodman, we need to be honest with you about something.” He looked at himself in the mirror, nodding. “That’s good. That’s good. Um, we need to be honest with you about something, and we know you’re not going to like it, but we . . . we, uh, what? We need you to hear us out . . . Yeah. Okay . . . We need to be honest with you, and we know you’re not going to like it, but we need you to hear us out.”
He nodded at his reflection again, practicing a small speech as the words came to him one by one. I can’t help it . . . I wish I could . . . I love her too . . . And finally, when he had all the words he needed, he threw on a clean, white buttoned-down shirt, slipped his feet into sneakers and hurried out the door.
First he had to make things right with Ginger.
***