“I’m impressed,” he said. “Not that I ever doubted you. May I do a few adjustments?”
She arched a brow. “Just twenty-four hours ago, you had your tongue inside of me and now you’re asking permission to touch my hands?”
He stepped up closer and looked down at her as he covered her fist with his palm and lifted it slightly. “I’m not the kind of man who takes without asking. Ever.”
She’d been teasing him with her question, he knew, but now she stared up at him, her blue eyes softer. “Yes, that is very true. You are…remarkable Ripley. Cam.”
He shivered at that little shift to the name that was only hers to whisper. She could have asked him for anything and he would have moved the world to give it to her. Perhaps he still would, before this was all finished. Whatever pain would follow when she pushed him away would be worth the little piece of heaven he was sharing with her now.
“You can’t distract me with compliments,” he said with a smile.
“I think I could,” she teased back. “I think I could find ten different ways to distract you.”
He shook his head. She was playing and he liked it. But he also saw it for what it was. He’d gotten too close, he’d seen her painful emotions too clearly. She wanted to build a wall. But he wouldn’t let her.
Using all the control he had developed over years in the ring, he stepped back, put himself into a defensive position and raised his hands, palms flat, so she’d have something to hit.
“Tell me again what you’re angry about,” he said. “One punch for everything you say.”
For a moment she seemed uncertain, but then she whispered, “I’m angry about my sister.”
She threw a punch, weak but fully centered on his palm. He nodded. “Why?”
“Miss Knightly should have taken better care of her.” She punched again, this time harder. “And Nora shouldn’t have run.” She punched again. “I hate that I’m afraid for her. I hate that I can’t help her.” She punched, this time a right left combination.
He nodded. “Very nice. Seems you learned a little from cornering.”
“I did,” she said. “I thought I might need it in the game.”
“Go on,” he encouraged. “What else?”
She swung again, her voice getting a little louder. “My mother,” she said. “Her lies.”
The punch was much harder now. It actually stung his palm. “Keep going.”
“Losing Esme.” She punched. “I miss her. I hate that I can’t just be happy for her. I hate that she doesn’t miss me.”
Ripley frowned. He knew that wasn’t true. Esme always talked about Jane when he saw her. But he understood Jane’s feelings about being left behind. This wasn’t about questioning or denying her those raw emotions. It was about allowing her to get them out so they wouldn’t fester and infect.
“I hate the shop.” She swung and it was wilder, as was her voice. “I hate it. It’s boring and I don’t belong there.”
His brow wrinkled. He’d suspected as much the times he had come to see her there. Esme and Delacourt had meant well by offering Jane the chance at a different life, but Jane was only stifled by the repetitive monotony of such a place. She was a wildflower, but she’d been pushed into a hothouse.
“What else? Don’t stop,” he encouraged.
“I’m angry at myself.” It was the hardest hit yet. “I’m ungrateful. I’m a bad sister. I’m an unappreciative friend. I’m a whore and everyone who sees me recognizes it, which is why I’ll never succeed at the shop.” Every cruel, untrue sentence was punctuated by a harder hit.
“More.”
“I’m angry at you.”
They both froze. Her eyes were wide, sparkling with unshed tears. His heart was pounding and his throat felt thick. “Punch,” he said. “Do it.”
She swung, but this time it was weak when it struck his palm. Her breath was short and harsh.
“Why me?” he asked, keeping his tone gentle, not putting his own reaction into the question that meant everything in the world to him.
“Because…” Her hands dropped and her voice caught. “Because I can’t. I-I can’t, Ripley. And being near you makes me wish I was someone else.”
