It would be so much easier if she were attracted to him, but she just wasn’t. That bone-deep pull, that instinctual, elemental need, was only for Anson.
“Good? Oh, I don’t know about that.” He flashed a smile that wasn’t as bright as usual as he heaped marshmallows into his own mug. “Handsome? Absolutely. Funny, charming? Hell yes. But good? Eh, debatable.”
“I think you’re better than you give yourself credit for.”
“Now that’s dangerous talk.” He dropped into the chair across from her, his own mug cradled between his palms. “Next thing you know, people will have expectations.”
“God forbid.” She sipped her cocoa, and the warmth spread through her like a sedative. The tightness in her chest eased. “He’s never going to let me in, is he?”
River studied her over the rim of his mug. “I wouldn’t bet against you. And he wanted to make sure you weren’t alone after whatever happened between you two… happened. That’s practically a declaration of undying love in Anson-speak.”
“He did say he loved me.”
“For real?”
“Well, he wrote it. But then we had sex—or started to, and he panicked. Basically kicked me out.”
River choked on his cocoa. “Whoa. Okay. That level of sharing requires whiskey.” He pulled a flask from his pocket and tipped a generous amount of the contents into his mug, then offered it to her. When she held her mug out, he poured some in. “Just don’t tell Boone I have this. His head might explode.”
“Sorry.” She blew on her whiskey-laced cocoa before taking a sip, savoring the burn that slid down her throat. “I shouldn’t be telling you this.”
“Hey, it’s okay. You need to talk, and I’m here for it.” He toasted her before taking a drink. “Besides, Anson and I have more in common than either of us likes to admit. Self-sabotage is practically an art form for guys like us.”
“I just... I don’t know what happened. One minute we were connecting, and the next he was shutting down. Like he couldn’t get me out of there fast enough.”
“Ah.” River nodded. “Classic Anson. Gets close to something good, panics, retreats to his cave.” He hesitated, then winced. “I don’t know how to ask this delicately, so I don’t get more details than I want, but did he let you see his scars?”
Her head jerked up. “You’ve seen them?”
“Hard not to when you live in a bunkhouse and share a communal bathroom.”
“I figured he’d keep them covered.”
“He does. Mostly.” River set his mug down carefully. “His first summer here, it was hot as hell, and we all jumped in the creek one day after work. He kept his long-sleeved shirt on until I made some stupid comment, then he took it off like he was going into battle. None of us knew what to say. We stared. Couldn’t help it.” He shook his head. “I felt like shit for goading him to do it.”
“I didn’t stare,” she whispered. “I touched them.”
River winced. “Yeah, that might’ve done it. He doesn’t like anyone touching them. Or looking at them. Or acknowledging they exist.”
“That’s ridiculous. They’re part of him.”
“Exactly. And he hates that part.” River leaned forward. “Look, I’m not saying it’s healthy. But those scars... they’re not just physical for him. They’re his failure. His shame. The reason he was in prison.”
“But it was an accident. He didn’t mean to hurt anyone.”
“Doesn’t matter. In his mind, he set that fire, and a man died. End of story.” His eyes darkened. “Trust me, I get it. Some mistakes follow you forever.”
Once again, she caught that fleeting sadness he tried so hard to hide behind his smiles.
“But that’s a downer for another night,” he continued, straightening. “The point is, Anson’s got walls for days. Thick ones. Built of solid self-loathing and reinforced with guilt. But you’ve gotten further than anyone else.”
“It doesn’t feel like it.” She wrapped her hands around her mug again, seeking its warmth. “Not tonight.”
“That’s because you hit a nerve. A big one.” River shrugged. “You got close, and he panicked. Classic fight-or-flight, and Anson’s not much of a fighter when it comes to emotions.”
“So he runs.”
“Every time.”
