He frowned. “Who?”
“Sky’s octopus plushie. It’ll make the change a little easier for him to deal with when I go home later.”
“Ah.” The toy had been the first thing he’d searched for when they’d made it upstairs, but she didn’t need to know that. “Don’t mention it. How old are your kids, if you don’t mind me asking?” he questioned.
“My boys are seven and four. My youngest, Saff, is a year and a half.”
“Must keep you busy, then.”
“Busy and exhausted, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.” She smiled with a calmness he hadn’t seen from her yet, and he couldn’t help but drink in every bit of it.
As he made for a second slice of pizza, his hand collided with Eiley’s. She jerked back, but he wouldn’t let her change her mind, grabbing a slice of Margherita and placing it on a napkin for her.
There was hope yet. Would dare say his olive branch had been successful. As she ate, he scratched the corner of his mouth with his thumb, trying to keep his satisfaction from breaking through.
“Don’t look so pleased with yourself,” Eiley scolded.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
The air between them thickened. With anyone else, he’d have moved in closer, made his move, but something stopped him: perhaps the knowledge that this peace between them balanced too precariously, and he wasn’t ready to ruin it.
He hopped off the counter and began sweeping books off the nearest shelf, which leaned on damp foundations. He hoped his organisational skills weren’t about to upset her the way this nightmare employee had; he tried to handle the paperbacks gently, though it was in his nature to rush, get the job done. Many of the copies weren’t in too terrible a condition, with most pages merely crinkled. If the spines could hold for long enough to dry, she’d manage to save them, just like she’d been so hellbent on last night.
“So, why isn’t your family here to help?” he asked.
Her reflection shifted in the window in front of him as she slid onto her feet to scribble on a pad of paper, her hair spilling like sunlight across one shoulder and the supple curve of herarse impossible to look away from. Not just that, either. Her black leggings clung to the crease between flesh and thigh, highlighting all of the gorgeous dimples of her soft body.
He thought of last night again, that split second of unexpected desire he’d felt, the vision of her T-shirt clinging to her chest. Something inside him lurched like it was trying to break out of his skin. Maybe it was just typical of him, attracted to something he couldn’t have, but when he’d finally closed his eyes at dawn, ready to shed away the night’s exhausting shift, every part of her had floated behind his lids. His subconscious had managed to memorise things he hadn’t known he’d paid attention to: the flickers on her face when her resentment had faltered, or that dark beauty spot peeking out of her hairline. He’d replayed their argument over and over, how close and damp andrawthey’d been in that stockroom, two open wounds scraping together without restraint.
If she felt it – which, of course she didn’t, because she had a million things to focus on that weren’thim– it didn’t show, because she barely lifted her head. “Funnily enough, I was hoping for some time alone.”
“Ah. So it’s not only me you’re trying to ward away, then. Here I was thinking I was special.”
She paused, pen tapping against the desk. In the reflection, their eyes met. “It must work really well on other women.”
He tipped his head, facing her again. “What’s that?”
The end of her pen arced the length of his body in a vague motion. Even with space between them, he felt it like a knife. It drew him closer, boots creaking over damp carpet.
“The cockiness. The uniform. The flirting. The random acts of kindness and the jokes,” she listed off. “Even how seriouslyyou take your job. It’s all very well-coordinated. Like something from a book.”
Warren bit the inside of his cheek, trying to decipher what, exactly, she was getting at. That this,he, was just some calculated act to get her into bed? Yes, he was attracted to her, but he wouldn’t dare make a move on her unless she showed some sign of welcoming it, wanting it.
Did she truly think that low of him?
“D’you honestly think I came here for a bit of fun? That I don’t have better things to be doing with my Sunday?”
She batted him away like she might a wasp buzzing around her head. “Then go and do them, by all means. I didn’t ask for you to come over here with your macho man act.”
He’d thought he’d been angry yesterday, but he now found she hadn’t even scratched the surface. She wasn’t just rude; she was fucking cutting. He hadn’t come here for thanks, and certainly not for anything else, but he surely deserved at least to be taken at face value. Helping was what made him him – if she couldn’t see that then what was he doing here? Even if she wanted to be alone, there were nicer ways to say it. “I don’t get it. You act like you know me, like I’m just some shitebag trying to take you for a spin. Believe me, if I were looking to mess about, you’d be thelastperson I’d think to come to!”
Her round cheeks smattered with crimson as she slammed her pen and paper down on the desk. “Then why are youhere?”
“Because nobody, not even a nippy wee rocket like you, should be dealing with all this alone!” he bellowed.
When she flinched, he wished he could stuff the words back into his mouth, but it was too late. Silence crawledthrough the bookstore as she avoided his gaze. He wanted to turn, leave, but that thread still held him there. Had he snapped it with his outburst?
“You’re right,” she whispered finally. “You’re trying to help me, again, and I’m just …” She trailed off. “I’m not myself. I’m overwhelmed and angry, and I keep taking it out on you because you’re … you’rethere. You keep being there.”
