“No.” I shake my head, my hands balling into fists. “You are trying to fix things again.”
The tapping pauses. Ted frowns, a subtle difference from a scowl. I hate that I know that a scowl turns his eyes into a storm, but a frown makes the blue soft and yielding. It somehow makes him look younger, and a little lost. “No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are,” I stalk up to him. Showered, in an oversized white and pink Barbie shirt and black shorts, I’m in my go-to comfy outfit, but now I wish I wore leather and spikes, anything to emit a solid fuck off vibe.
I don’t need his help. I’ve done good enough on my own without him, and now he thinks he can come in here and romance me with his helpful, practical handiness? That my panties would just drop and I’d ask the big bear to save me?
I don’t want to want him, or need him. Not someone who could hurt me more deeply than anyone before, crack me down the middle like a porcelain vase before I shatter. That was the old Goldie.
Before, I’d been an exposed vulnerable nerve, and now that I had some of my sense about me again, I hate that I ever left myself so open to caring about him. He overwhelms me.
“It’s what you do, isn’t it? You fix things. Clean up your brothers’ messes, and now you are trying to fix my life too. Well, I’ve got news for you, I don’t need you to fix my life.” When I stalk up to him and poke him in the chest, I tell myself it has nothing to do with wanting to feel his solid muscle or breathe in his scent though it instantly comforts me.
His frown deepens as he tilts his chin down to meet my eye. “It’s my fault you got mixed up in Eli’s bullshit. I’m not going to leave—”
I hold up a hand. “Let me stop you right there. It’s exactly what you are going to do. This house is my responsibility, my burden. My man troubles are mine. And sure, I’d appreciate it if you broadcasted that I have nothing to do with your brother’s debts, but you can’t come in here with your cameras, and your cleaning, and—and—” I realize I’m practically sputtering as my hands wave all about.
My mantra runs hot through me, like a flowing river of lava.
I am capable.
I am enough.
I don’t need a man.
He grabs my fingers and pulls me up against his body until our mouths are centimeters away. I can’t tell if the heat rolling off him or his stormy eyes is what suddenly has me melting into a puddle.
Searching my eyes, he leaves no place for me to hide. “And what?” he challenges.
There is something else in his gaze, deep in the storm. A question. A question I don’t know even though I desperately want to answer it.
“And you brought me air conditioning,” I cry out as if he is the devil incarnate.
“And what about you?” he growls, refusing to let me go. “You have to make everyone like you. Dig into their lives, no matter how private they want to keep them. Don’t tell me this came on with your siren abilities. You wanted me to like you—”
I cut him off before he goes on. “That’s how it started, but then I realized how messed up you are.” He slowly shuffles forward until my back hits the refrigerator. His thick tree trunk of a leg pushes up between mine, causing my breath to hiss between my teeth. I fight the urge to close my eyes and grind on his jean-clad thigh. I struggle against the grip he has on my hands, albeit weakly. He’s pulled them into his chest, like he’s keeping them safe there, thumbs brushing back and forth across my wrists. But the storm is swirling in those scowling blue eyes, sucking the oxygen from my lungs, making me feel like I’m drowning.
“I don’t need help,” I grind out again, desperately clinging to my point. To the stance I worked so hard to gain ground on.
Ted lowers his head closer still, his drugging warmth surrounding me. His masculine scent of pine and musk makes me lightheaded. My synapses, my lungs, my thighs, all on fire, all ready to ignite.
“I don’t need a man,” I go on, my voice low and as foreboding as I can make it.
Every cell wrenches me toward him, like he is the world’s largest magnet and I’m just a pile of pennies. It’s then I notice I'm shaking. His breath puffs against my lips. Goosepimples shoot up across my neck and collarbone with almost painful speed.
My words turn into a ragged whisper even as I quake, trapped between the cool fridge and his hard body. “And I don’t need you.”
His lips press against mine, silencing me. I shatter into a million pieces. When I jerk my arms, he releases my wrists only to slide his palms over my hips. I claw at his hair, the nape of his neck as I instantly open my mouth to him. Our tongues meet in a heated battle that only drives me into a higher state of desire.
Want. More.
Hate him.
I don’t need him.
Some part of my brain convinces me the harder I kiss him, the more I rub against that hard, bulky thigh the more I convince both of us that.
A large hand pushes up my shirt and plucks at my nipple through my lacy bra. My head falls back, mouth open in a gasp as what feels like a dozen sparklers singe me from the inside out before concentrating between my legs, turning into liquid aching heat.
