“How am I supposed to trust you if you’re a bullshit artist?”
“Because you and me, we’re more alike than I think you’d care to admit.”
“Again, you don’t know me. You just met me.” I look up at him, assessing, searching—unfortunately, I see only truth in him.
He shakes his head. “Listen to me, mama—I want to help you. Yes, I expect to get something out of it—eventually. That’s no bullshit. What I expect to get out of it isyou. The real you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean, therealme?” I demand.
“You’re shielding. You’ve got solid steel walls around the real, genuine core of you a mile fucking thick. No one gets in, nothing gets out.” He touches my lips with his thumb again, a soft, brushing touch.
“Stop doing that,” I say testily, batting his hand away. “I don’t like it.”
He does it again. “Then why do your eyes dilate when I do it? Why do you suck in a breath like it’s your last one when I do it?” Another swipe of his thumb, ghost-soft, over my lips.
And shit, shit, shit—he’s right. He’s fucking right. He does it, and my chest swells with a deep breath I’m helpless to stop.
“I know you’re shielding and I know you’ve got giant-ass fuckin’ walls because you and me, mama, we’re the same.”
“Why do you call me mama?” I ask, my voice quiet.
He shrugs. “Dunno.”
“Bullshit.” I see the lie in his eyes. And I call him on it. “Never bullshit a bullshitter,” I say, my turn to throw his words in his face. “Why do you call me mama, Chance? The truth.”
He stares down at me. “Personal reasons.”
“So you won’t tell me.”
“Sure I will.”
“So?”
“If you tell me something of equally personal value.”
“How am I supposed to know what’s equally personal value?”
He grins. “Because if you agree, I’ll go first, as a matter of trust.”
I stare up at him, and damn him, but I see nothing but truth. “Fuck, fine.”
He nods. “And so it begins.” He tugs me by the hand. “Come on. Personal conversations like this are best had in private.”
He leads me to his room, lies on his bed—I notice he leaves plenty of room beside him. When I stay standing in the doorway, he pats the bed next to him. “Close the door and come sit.”
Moving reluctantly, I close his door and move to his bed, perching on the edge—stiffly, awkwardly, with no intention of relaxing.
He laughs. His bed contains at least half a dozen thick, puffy, soft pillows in heather gray jersey pillowcases; he stuffs two behind his back and a third behind his head, scooching down and burrowing back, ankles crossed. “Get comfy, Annika. No sense acting all…” He wiggles a hand at me. “Awkward and shit. I ain’t gonna bite.”
“I’m fine.”
He stares at me, shaking his head in amusement. And then, managing to move both lightning fast and yet still gently, he snags me around the middle and tugs me toward him. Before I understand what’s happening, I’m tucked against him, sheltered under the massive weight of his huge arm, his skin soft and warm under my ear and cheek.
“Relax.”
“Letgo,” I hiss.
“Do me a favor and take three deep breaths. Close your eyes, take the breaths, andthentell me to let go.”
