I’m combative: “Showering.”
“Bullshit.”
Dammit.
Our eyes lock but I refuse to respond. Because though I have every intention of telling him about my financial situation—eventually—this degrading scenario is not how it’s supposed to happen.
I cock my chin. “I fell in a puddle on my morning walk.”
He pushes off the wall and takes a predatory step toward me.
And another.
Barely enough room for air to fit between us, he puts his palm on my bare chest, his thumb and forefinger wrapping around the sides of my neck. When he pushes me hard enough my back hits the wall, I suck in a sharp breath.
I say, “Nash,” because I don’t know what else to say. Because he’s Nash. Because I’m naked and he’s holding me in a demanding way that might be lighting me up like the power grid for the entire city of Charleston.
I’m either one-hundred percent terrified or extremely turned on.
When he positions himself so his legs spread mine apart and his hips pin me in place along with his palm, I rule out being terrified.
The look in his eyes means one thing: He wants what I want.
“What. Are. You. Doing. Here?” he asks, punctuating each word.
I swallow, pushing my toes into the concrete like it will get me somewhere only to find myself closer to his eye level. “Showering.”
“Why?”
“Because.”
His stare peels me apart; I have to tell him. If I don’t, he’ll make me stand here naked all day, and that might end in me doing something I’ll love him for before hating myself.
“Dammit, Rue. Wh?—”
“Because I’ve been sleeping in the not-guesthouse on the futon.” The words tumble out of my mouth like a drunken line of dominoes. “Because I don’t have any money. There’s no coin-collecting client. My mom got wrapped up in an internet scam—the doctor said likely due to the tumor—and we’re broke.”
At my confession, his expression softens, and he drops his hand from my chest and takes a single step back.
“I have $17.32. That’s why I’m looking for the gold.”
“What?” He’s dumbfounded. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”
I squeeze my eyes shut.
“Dammit, Rue,” he snaps. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
I turn my head away from him, silently begging myself not to cry.
“Why di?—”
“Because you were fine!” I shout. “Because you left me, and you went on to have this perfect life. A business. A house. Without me. While I stayed in Fontain and my life fell apart. Without you.” I let out a full, frustrated breath. “I didn’t want you to know that I let my business fall apart, missed the fact my mom had a tumor, and have a kid who—” I cut myself off.
“Who what?”
I take two breaths. “Deserves better.”
In our silence, the sky once again warns us with a rumble of thunder.
