“Baby, you have no idea.”
Uma lifted her brows. “Did you call mebaby?”
He stilled. Had he gone too far? Probably. He always did. But a closer look showed a new light in her eyes, bright and a little wild.
“Might have.”
Her chest rose and fell once, twice. She broke her gaze away from his, put her cup to her mouth, and took a gulp.
“Better than princess, I guess,” she said grudgingly but with a sharp stab of humor that he hadn’t realized was there. In that moment, Ive knew he was toast. He’d do whatever she wanted.
Whatever she needed.
He caught himself staring and had to turn away before she ran, screaming what everyone in Blackwood knew about him anyway—that he was a psychotic freak.
She surprised him again when she abruptly shifted gears. “So, the beard. How’s it feel without it?”
“Pretty good,” he managed to say, rubbing his palm over his chin, assessing. “Weird, actually. Been a few years.”
“Yeah? How long?”
“Um, maybe six or so?”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope. My nephew, Gabe? He’s never seen me without it.”
“Wow…Wow.”
She looked at him so hard he had to look away again. What was it about this woman that made him feel exactly like a teenager?
* * *
Uma couldn’t help but stare at his gorgeous face and wonder what would make a man as handsome as this one hide for so long. Mid-perusal, her eyes came to a stuttering halt.
Freckles.A sweet smattering of them danced across the bridge of his nose. Funny how she hadn’t noticed them when he’d had the beard. Shaving it off had uncovered more than his jaw. Layers of camouflage had peeled away to reveal a mass of contradictions. Freckles vs. scars. Soft, lush lips vs. hard, mean jaw.
Jesus, she wanted to see him in black and white, with such high contrast that the blue eye would be white and the freckles would pop like flecks of fairy dust. The other eye… Uma couldn’t picture how that whiskey color would photograph.
He must have caught something in her gaze, because he sort of squinted at her, shyly flirtatious. Like dipping your toe into hot water after years without a bath; everything south of her belly button went sloshy.
Crap, what was this? She looked away first, relieved to see him get up, grab her mug, and move to fetch a new round of drinks.
“You been married?” he asked from across the room.
She shook her head. Something about the way he asked made her counter, “You?”
“Nah.” He hesitated. “Came pretty close once, but—” He stopped short, and she could feel the story there.
Back on his crate, he handed her the cup and then reached his bottle out for a toast. “Here’s to being crazy, right?”
They clinked, the sound reminiscent of a million toasts before.
Toasts her pops had shared with friends who stopped by for a drink after closing. Other toasts too: her mother and stepdad celebrating over mugs of whatever homebrew he’d made, before invariably spitting it out and lighting up a doobie.
There’d been toasts in college, with kids whose parents had no idea they were getting wasted on Mommy and Daddy’s dime. At least their folks would have cared. Uma’s mother didn’t give a shit what she did to her body, as long as she did yoga and ate organic.
And then the toasts with Joey. Uma’s mind wanted to shy away, but she forced it back.
