His words worm into the cracks of my heart, and I swear to all things holy, I can feel them stitching up my broken pieces. If only my life were mine to give.
That thought has me taking half a step back and breaking our connection. I drop my head to stare at my toes and blink furiously to keep the stupid tears at bay. My life is not my own. It belongs wholly and completely to three little boys who need me to be their entire world.
CHAPTER5
DILLON
How many times have I dreamed of Penny standing in my apartment? Hundreds? Thousands? But in all my dreams, she was never staring at her shoes, trying not to cry.
“Penny,” I say gently. “Look at me.”
I can’t tell if she’s shaking her head or trembling from the effort of not crying, but it guts me.
“Please look at me,” I say again.
I watch her chest rise and fall heavily like each breath is painful.
The door behind her crashes open, and time stands still as Ryder barrels inside, balancing a large pizza in one hand and a six-pack of beer in the other.
“Ah, hey,” he says as his eyes dance between Penny and me.
She’s like a statue. Frozen. Well, everything but her eyes. Those are wide and confused and boring a hole into my soul.
I move past her with determined strides, tuck the folder she handed me under my arm, then take the pizza and beer from Ryder.
“Thanks for dropping this off,” I say with a jerky nod toward the door.
“Dang, man,” he drawls, leaning into my personal space. “Is this your Wednesday girl? No wonder you’re so wound up.”
“Out. Now,” I say through gritted teeth.
His grin is mischievous as he saunters out the door, but not before calling over his shoulder, “Nice to finally meet you, Wednesday.”
Penny gasps behind me, and I drop my head with a groan. “Sorry about him.” I turn toward her. “That was Ryder. He’s normally a friend.”
“Wednesday?” Her voice is timid, but laced with a hint of humor.
“Come on. Let me put this down and throw on some pants.”
“Oh, I should…”
“Penny, come in and sit down.”
I don’t know what comes over me. I’m not an asshole, but every domineering gene I possess comes screaming to the forefront when she’s around. And something tells me that if I don’t get her to stay, even for a little bit, I’ll never get this chance again.
She wrings her fingers together, and I want nothing more than to place my hand over hers before she rubs the skin raw. But my hands are full, so I head toward the kitchen island, dropping the folder on the coffee table on the way and silently begging her to follow.
By the time the pizza and beer are on the island, she still hasn’t moved. I grasp the edge of the granite and release a heavy sigh. She’s not coming to me, and that rejection weighs on my heart.
Turning, I find her hovering at the entryway. She’s the poster child for nervousness as she plucks at a damned elastic around her wrist, and I curse the fireflies trying to light up my chest.
“Should I take off my shoes?” she asks, staring down at her feet.
Her tall boots reach all the way to her knees. Yes, I do want her to take them off so I can ogle her legs, but instead, I say, “Whatever you’re more comfortable with. I want you to make yourself at home.”
She opens and closes her mouth like she’s going to say something, and I hold my breath. I don’t release it until she cautiously walks forward and sits on the sofa with her back to me.
I round the kitchen island slowly, giving myself a minute to calm down, but as soon as I see her, I nearly swallow my tongue.
