I chuckle, surprised by the unexpected observation. “I’m paid to protect. Not provide therapy.”
“Well, go on break then. Quit working and talk to me like a fellow human being, not a…” Her mouth twitches as she searches for the word.
“Not a handler?”
“That’s it,” she says, pointing at me, letting her guard down for one moment.
“Shoot.”
Mia drops the bag in the dust. Burgundy clouds snake around her.
“I don’t want to feel like a slave in my own life. Like I have no say, no future. Like this tiny respite is asking too much.”
I nod, working hard to keep my face unreadable. She needs a punching bag right now. I can be that for her. I widen my stance slightly, waiting for the next verbal blow.
“I don’t want to feel like my only value is what I can do for others. How I can make them money. How I can sell my soul, who I am, to keep others financially afloat. No, financially winning.” She shakes her head, looking at the toes of her light tan cowboy boots where they touch the hem of her long mint floral sundress. “I don’t want to be a cash cow.”
“But the guardianship…” I narrow my gaze, taking in her stunning face, the subtle shift in muscles and movements thattells me she’s close to breaking down. “That makes everything much trickier.”
Her mouth twists for a moment, like she wants to speak but can’t find the words. God help me, I can’t help but drop my gaze to those plump, pink lips. Let my mind wander off for a moment to how she might taste.
Green eyes snap to mine, and she’s caught me. Her cheeks flush again, but not from anger. The corners of her mouth turn up slightly, and a mischievous look captures her face. But her voice comes out steady, pained. “What if a part of me wishes the stalker had done a better job last night?”
Her words knock the air clean out of me.
“Is that wrong of me?” She knits her brow.
Anger burns hot inside, making Texas midday downright broiling. “Makes those who have made you feel this way wrong, I’d reckon.”
“And if you were in my situation, what would you do?”
The question hits closer to home than I’m willing to admit.
Suddenly, a tight laugh escapes her lips. She pinches the bridge of her nose, sinking her head.
“What?”
“It’s nothing…”
I wait, shifting uneasily.
“It’s just … for a moment I thought of you singing, dancing, shaking it on stage like I have to…”
“And?” I ask, stuck between a laugh and a grimace.
“Well, I can’t imagine…” She eyes me for a long moment. “No way.”
“You point me in a line, I can dance,” I counter too quickly. It’s not like I care what she thinks. Not like she should either.
“So, you can dance like you’re inRoadhouseor something?”
“Something like that,” I concede, flexing my jaw.
The air hangs heavy as the heat between us. Can’t blame all of it on the sun-baked clay.
“Lemonade? Sweet tea?” I offer, heading toward the front door.
Mia hesitates, eyes sliding over my backside so that when I turn, she’s crimson this time. Satisfaction pricks, though I don’t care to think about why.
