He rubs the back of his neck, glancing past me toward the living room. “Maybe you could .?.?. teach Ellie to play? She’s wanted to learn.”
I smile. “Already planned on it.”
His eyes linger on my face, that thread of tenderness making its scarce appearance. Or maybe it’s the fatigue. “It sounded nice. Whatever that was. Heard it through the door.”
I blink, fighting a strange urge to tuck my hair behind my ear like I’ve never received a compliment before. “It was my grandmother’s favorite. She’d always ask me to play it for her. Actually, she taught it to me. It was all she knew, but it was how I started playing. It’s not good, but she taught me the beginner version, so .?.?. I kind of kept with it.”
He watches me. There’s no nostalgic smile, no imagination in those eyes—the way you’d figure someone might get when you share something like that. His eyes are more .?.?. quietly uncertain.
I blush, giving in and pushing my hair behind my ear. “Sorry—sometimes I take small-talk compliments too far. What I meant to say was, thanks.”
He shakes his head. “It’s a fond memory. No need to apologize for it.” He runs a hand down his face. “Guess we did kind of start off on the wrong foot.”
I glance down to his thigh. “Or high kick.”
He laughs and it’s so real and hearty, it breaks something in me. “Definitely wrong high kick.” He agrees, stepping closer, but I don’t think he meant to. It’s almost natural. Pulling.
But now, he’s so close, I have to lift my chin to look at him. I must have moved too because my back hits the counter edge.
“Willow,” he starts. “It’s not that I don’t like you. In fact, I think I’ve made it pretty damn obvious I’m attracted to you.”
Good lord, I could have sworn it was the other way around.
He’s definitely tired and I’m likely the one who’s worn him out.
My heart skips as if a man in my life is something I could ever even consider again.
Especially not a man like Dallas. He might not be deceptive or manipulative like the others. But the man has heartbreak written all over him.
“Too damn attracted,” he growls low, eyes flicking to my lips then back up to meet mine. “But I know this is the last thing either of us want or need.”
I frown up at him.
“Think it’s pretty damn clear you’re over the hearts and flowers. Least of all from someone like me.”
“That’s one way to put it,” I mutter.
He nods and looks around the house as if remembering who it was all for. What he’s lost. What he never wants to go through again. But he doesn’t define his need to hold back. Dallas would be the type to suffer in silence.
“So .?.?.” He scans me, jaw working like he’s pained, then meets my eyes. “You’re going to have to help me if I look like I’m about to cross some line.”
I want to swallow but he’s too close.
Do I want to help him—or even remind him—if he’s about to cross some line? What if I want to see what’s behind door number two—or seven?
What if I choose to be reckless—just for a moment? Withhim. What if he needs it? What if webothneed it? Would I really be helping either of us by pushing him away?
I swallow. Yes. I would. I swore I’d never hand my heart over again. Wanting and allowing are two different things. And he’s trusting me not to let either win.
I nod. “That won’t be a problem, Spout.”
He winces and grunts. “And you .?.?.can’tcall me Spout.”
“It’s the most unsexy name I can think of—I’m sticking with Spout.”
There’s a knock on the door.
This time, Dallas swallows. “That’s probably Rose with Ellie.”
