“Yeah, he tends to do that,” I mutter.
“You know him well?”
I wince. “Um, he’s an ex.” Saying it like this makes it seem like there could be other exes, like I haven’t had a five year long dry spell since Ralph and I broke up.
“Really?” Nathan asks, looking me up and down. “Huh.”
“What? Is it so difficult to believe that a man wanted me? That I have an ex?” I say, feeling, for some reason, like Nathan is making fun of me.
“Relax, Candice, that’s not what I meant.”
He steps forward and into the glow of the overhead light. I see that he still has that same, slightly feral look on his face. I get the distinct feeling that not many people ever see him like this—that normally, he’s too controlled and charming to let any of his inner emotion show through.
“But,” he continues, “I think it’s very telling that you assumed I meant that there’s no way Ralph could want you. Honey, that’s not it at all.”
“Don’t call me that,” I hiss. “And what is it telling of, exactly?”
Nathan lifts his hand towards me and snags a piece of my hair. He toys with it, wrapping it around his finger a few times.
“You don’t have much experience, do you?”
I shake my head.
“When was the last time a man touched you?” he asks.
“You just saw it,” I manage to say.
“No,” he says sharply. “He’s nothing. Forget about him.” He drops the strand of my hair, and then gently tucks it behind my ear. His hand grazes the shell of my ear and my breath catches at the contact—at the feel of his warm, calloused fingers. “When was the last time a man touched you and you really wanted it?” he continues, leaning in a bit closer to me, and not moving his hand from the side of my head. “When was the last time it felt good?”
I feel my eyes flutter closed, and I suck in a breath. It takes all my willpower not to lean into Nathan. Not to try and get closer to his warmth.
“Candice,” he chides. “Tell me. When was the last time a man made you feel good?”
I open my eyes, and find Nathan staring down at me. His blue eyes are electric in the light, and there’s a hungry, hazy glint in them.
“Never,” I admit, unable to resist the pull of those eyes. “Never.”
“That’s a damn shame,” he says. He smooths my hair back one more time, and then drops his hand. “A damn shame,” he repeats.
Something electric flickers between us, and I look at him, really, truly look at him, for what feels like the first time. And then his gaze shutters, and he turns away, breaking the moment in two.
“Let’s go back inside,” he says. “Beau will wonder where we are.”
“And Sarah, too,” I say, suddenly reminded of the fact that inside is an entirely different world. One where he and I hate each other—one where I think he’s a player, and he thinks I’m a viper.
“Sarah?” he asks, looking genuinely confused.
“The woman you were flirting with,” I say. “Her name is Sarah. Or do you not tend to ask them that?” I try to say this with a smile, but as soon as the words are out, I can tell it doesn’t land right.
“I don’t know what the fuck you thought you saw, Candice, but I wasn’t flirting,” he says in a flat voice that doesn’t match his vicious words.
And then, for once, he’s the one walking away from me, turning on his heel and leaving without a word. I’m left standing in the cold, wondering what the hell just happened.
BARN BULLETIN
Is anyone else too hungover to work today? Can I have the day off, please?
-Tomás
