“Actually, I was going to say you’re getting paint on the trim.”
I looked down. Sure enough, lime-green specks dotted the white wood like misplaced stars.
“Shit.”
He moved behind me, his hand covering mine on the roller handle. “Like this. Smooth strokes.”
His chest pressed against my back, his breath warm against my ear, and every nerve ending in my body went on high alert. This was bad. This was very, very bad. Because in moments like this—with his hand guiding mine, the paint scent mixing with whatever cologne he wore, the solid warmth of him—I wanted to forget everything else.
I wanted to do what I actuallywantedto do.
Date him. Like normal people. Find out about each other’s pasts slowly, over coffee dates and movie nights and all those ordinary things that extraordinary circumstances had stolen from us.
And kiss. Lots and lots of kissing.
Some time, in the far, far future, I could start to reveal my past. One rose petal at a time. By then, he’d know me a lot better, and hopefully, maybe, he wouldn’t see me different …
“Faith.” His voice had gone rough. “We need to talk about what happened. About your past. About that night.”
The roller slipped from my hand, clattering to the plastic-covered floor. Lime green splattered across the drop cloth like evidence.
I turned, and the space between us evaporated. His eyes searched mine, and what I saw there wasn’t judgment. It was something that looked dangerously close to understanding.
“If I tell you everything,” I said slowly, “you’ll never look at me the same way.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know you’ve been looking at me like …” I gestured vaguely between us. “Like there’s something here. Something that has nothing to do with attorney-client privilege.”
He didn’t deny it.
“But once you know everything about me …” I turned back to the wall, picking up the roller with shaking hands. The lime green dripped slowly back into the tray. “That’ll change.”
“Faith.” He took the roller from me, set it aside. His hands cupped my face, forcing me to look at him. “I know this is scary. But I need the truth. All of it.”
For a moment, we just stood there, his thumbs brushing my cheekbones, the music playing softly, paint fumes making me lightheaded. Or maybe that was just him.
I’d spent my whole life hiding the worst parts of me because I believed no one could love me if they knew the truth. And now the one man I couldn’t lose was demanding to see it.
But maybe it would be okay. Ryker was still here, even afterthat night in the woods. Rationally, nothing I confessed was as bad as that night.
Still, doubt lingered in my mind, planted there after years of rejection and being told I wasn’t good enough. Years of people then using my mistakes and bad decisions as evidence that I was a bad person, unworthy of being loved.
I couldn’t handle it if Ryker looked at me differently. He might stay, out of obligation to help me through the trial.
But his heart might abandon me.
Just like most everyone else in my life had.
“Okay,” I whispered.
“Okay?”
I pulled away, grabbing the roller. The lime green gleamed wet and impossible on the wall—too bright, too bold, too honest.
“Then let’s get this over with.”
24
