She flashed me a smile, one I recognized as genuine. God, I never thought I’d see that from her again.
“Give yourself some credit. It’s a solid 10 percent.”
I tapped her ass with the paint roller, which sent her scampering away from me. She angled her head to see if I left a mark, but no paint was on the roller.
She tensed her face into a stern look. “Don’t make me kick you out of this room.”
“So,” I said, looking around the half-painted room, “youdon’twant my help?”
She dipped the roller in the aluminum tin of cream paint on the floor, tapping it gently against the side, then lifting it out. “I was doing fine before you got here, Nathan.”
I smirked. “Yeah, it looked like you were having a great time.”
Her head snapped to me. “How long were you watching?”
“Long enough to see that your dance moves haven’t changed since high school.”
“Shut up!” She smacked my arm before quickly returning her hand to the handle of her brush. “This is why I don’t dance in public… at least not sober.”
I laughed. “Probably for the best.”
“I hate you,” she grumbled, but I could see a smile tugging at her lips.
I swallowed. “You should, Bren.” I focused on my roller, skimming up and down the wall. “You looked good. I’ve always liked it when you let your instincts run wild.”
She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I only ever felt like Icouldwith you.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Not with Mr. You Too?”
The question brushed the healthy boundary I set. But dammit if the thought that I made her feel something no one else could didn’t have me greedy.
“Jack,” she corrected, swiping hair out of her face. That’s when my eye snagged on her finger—herringlessfinger. Maybe she didn’t want to get paint on it. Or maybe she always took it off at night. Regardless, I liked seeing her finger bare.
“Not withJack?” I pressed, unable to stop myself.
She turned away to gather more paint on her roller. “No.” The word was so quiet, I almost didn’t hear her.
But I did hear, and I couldn’t ignore it.
I wanted her to relax again. People tended to view Brenna as reserved, but when she was comfortable, she let her goofy side show. I missed hearing her wild laughter, seeing the spark in her eyes.
This was why I didn’t want to come back to Middlebury, why I didn’t want tostay.Remaining angry with Brenna took effort. It always had. I held a ridiculous number of grudges, for small and large things, but with her, my instinct was to forgive, to let things go.
Because I never wanted a life without this woman. Even when I was angry with her, I hadn’t wanted to permanently push her away. When I realized I had, it gutted me. If all I could have was friendship, I’d find a way to make it work. It was worse to not have her in my life at all.
I bent down and dipped my finger in the paint. “Brenna,” I said softly. When she turned to me, I ran my finger across her flushed cheek, smearing paint in one thin line.
Her eyes widened. It took a second for her to grab her own handful of paint and toss it at me, spattering it across my chest and neck. She broke into laughter, loud and unrestrained and ending with an adorable snort. Her true laugh. I wanted to hear it again.
“You’re asking it for it, Quinn.”
“You started it, Sharpe.”
We lunged toward the can at the same time, both of us coming away with globs of paint dripping through our fingertips. We faced each other, readying for the fight.
“It’s not too late to surrender,” I said, “before I make an absolute mess of you.”
Brenna’s chest rose and fell rapidly. “And let you get away with this?” She motioned to her face. “Not a chance.”
