My cheeks burn. "Like what? It’s a t-shirt and jeans."
"It's you," he says simply. "You think the years that passed erased the target on your back? Or the one on your..." He stops, his eyes darkening as they linger on my midsection. The look is primal. Hungry. It triggers something deep in my hindbrain—the instinct to bare my neck and let him bite.
Christie sets a large paper cup on the counter with a loud thump. "Black coffee. On the house, Austin."
"Put it on my tab," he counters, throwing a twenty onto the counter. "And hers too."
"I can pay for my own?—"
"Let's go." He grabs his cup. He doesn't grab me, but his body angles toward the door, issuing a silent command.
"I have errands to run," I lie. I do have errands, but stating them feels like a rebellion. "I need paint. For the living room."
His lip quirks up in a smirk that is equal parts arrogant and devastatingly handsome. "Harrison's Hardware. It’s two doors down. Walk with me."
He doesn't wait for an answer.
I say goodbye to Christie, who gives me a look that is half-pity, half-envy, and follow him out. The street feels different with him beside me. People move out of the way. Men who might have glanced at me before now avert their eyes entirely, their gazes sliding off me the moment they see the cut on Austin's back.
"You blocked the sale," I say as we walk, the anger bubbling up again.
"I delayed it," he corrects. He takes a sip of his scalding coffee without even wincing. "House isn't safe. Foundation needs work. Wiring is a fire hazard. I'm not letting you sell a death trap to some unsuspecting family. Bad for property values."
"Since when do you care about property values?"
He stops in the middle of the sidewalk, forcing me to halt or run into his solid chest. He looks down at me, his expression serious. "I care about what's mine. That land has been next to ours for three generations. I'm not letting it go to strangers."
What's mine.The words hang in the air, ambiguous and heavy.
We enter Harrison's Hardware. The smell of sawdust and metal replaces the coffee aroma. Frank, the owner, is behind the counter. He’s an older man with hands like gnarled roots.
"Austin," Frank nods. "Courtney. Good to see you back, girl."
"Hi, Frank," I smile, and place my drink on the counter. "Just need some primer and interior white."
I move toward the paint aisle, grateful for the distraction. Austin’s eyes track me every step of the way. I feel him watching the sway of my hips, the movement of my legs. It’s maddening. Exhilarating.
After dragging a gallon of paint off the lowest shelf, I attempt to grab two gallons of primer, struggling slightly with the weight.
Suddenly, a warm, hard chest presses against my back. Large hands cover mine on the handles of the paint cans.
"Let go," Austin growls softly, his breath fanning across my ear.
"I’ve got it," I protest, though my breath hitches.
"You've got nothing," he murmurs. He lifts the cans as if they weigh nothing, his forearms brushing against my sides. He doesn't step back. He stays there, caging me against the shelving unit.
I’m trapped between the wall of paint cans and the wall of man. My pulse hammers against my ribs like a trapped bird.
"Why are you doing this, Austin?" I whisper. "Why can't you just let me do what I came here to do?"
He leans in closer, his nose brushing the hair behind my ear. A tremor racks my spine.
"Because you were gone for a long time, Court," he says, his voice rough with suppressed emotion. "Ten years of silence. You think I’m going to let you come back, slap a coat of paint on a memory, and leave again in three days?"
"I have a life in the city."
"You have a job," he corrects. "You don't have a life. If you had a life, you wouldn't be looking at me like you want to climb me right here in aisle four."
