Gentry clenches his jaw and heaves a sigh. “I’m notafraidof anythin’. I’m just not interested.”
He’s referring to pottery, but I can’t help but wonder if it’s a double entendre. Like, he’s also referring to the tension I felt between us. Maybe it’s his way of letting me know he isn’t interested inme. But if that’s the case, a big part of me wonders if he’s lying.
“You sure about that, Daddy Moore?”
“How many fuckin’ times do I gotta tell you to quit callin’ me that?”
“Wanna know what I think?” I step closer. Not by much, but enough to make his breath hitch.
“What I want is for you to take your ass home. Or to Finn’s. Anywhere other than buggin’ me.”
Ignoring him, I say, “I think you like it.”
He huffs. “I can assure you, I do not like you buggin’ me, Remington.”
“You know, you’re the only one who calls me that. Even my mom calls me Remi, unless I’m in trouble.” When he doesn’t say anything, I add, “And I wasn’t talkin’ about that. I think you kinda like it when I call you daddy. And I think you like it when I flirt with you.”
I don’t know where this came from, and I’m well aware I’m playing with fire, but after the vibe I got from him last week, I can’t not say something. Even if he rips me a new one for it.
“That’s absurd,” he growls, sending a shot of heat down my spine.
A grin curves my lips. “I don’t think it is. Maybe you haven’t always liked it, but I definitely think you do now. At least a little. It’s okay, though. I won’t tell anyone. Promise.”
“You’re outta your goddamn mind. I’ve got shit to do, so if you’d excuse me…”
That’s all he says before he storms inside his house. I watch him go, a shit-eating grin on my face the whole time. Gentry may have tried to appear unfazed, but the red on his cheeks gave him away.
I was right… I didn’t make it up, and it wasn’t one-sided.
The question is, how do I get him to admit to that?
Thirteen
Gentry
The water is scalding when I step under the stream. It beats down on my face and chest as I press one palm to the wall, steadying myself.
It’s beenhours.
Hours since I left Remington standing in front of the barn, and I don’t think my heart rate has come down to a normal speed since.
He got to me.
He got under my skin, and I don’t know how I let it happen. I’ve done my best to keep busy, to keep my mind off what happened earlier, but it’s impossible. No matter what I do or how hard I try, my mind always comes back to his ridiculous words and that goddamn taunting look in his eyes. He thinks he knows. He’s so fucking sure he’s right, but he couldn’t be further from the truth. Who the hell does he think he is?
What he said was completely inappropriate.
And wrong.
I hang my head, the water cascading down my back as I try to make sense of everything. Since last week, any time I’m alone, all I can think about is that pottery studio and the way it felt being near him.
His hands covering mine.
His breath on my neck.
And the way my body responded to it.
It was a visceral reaction, and I can’t make sense of it. This is Remington… The boy who once explored and played around on this property with my son, getting in trouble and running amuck every summer. Who got caught sneaking liquor out of my cabinet when he was sixteen, and then proceeded to throw up all over my boots and rug while insisting that he and Hollis weren’t drunk off their asses. I have never—not even once—looked at him as anything other than my son’s best friend.
