Page 29 of Crossroads

“It’s true that I’m not handy?” I teased.

He shook his head, not answering. The quirk of his lips was answer enough. “I learned how to work with my hands because I saw what my dad’s hands could do. Callum always said he was the one with dad’s hands, but I don’t think he really looked at mine.”

Their father, the one who had beaten them, those hands killed their mother. I reached out without thinking and slid my hand over his own. He froze, and I swallowed hard, noticing how tiny my hands were compared to his.

“My hands are covered in scars and aren’t dainty and soft. They’re the hands of someone who has calluses and holds drumsticks for most of the day. I used to rock climb, and I don’t get manicures unless it’s with my friends. Our hands don’t make us, but we can try to make them our own.” I pause. “If that makes sense.”

Bodhi didn’t move, and I held my breath. “It makes sense.” He turned then, and his nose knocked the hat on my head back slightly. I tilted my head up, my breath slowing.

And then he leaned down and brushed his lips against mine. I froze, wondering what the hell was happening, and then there was nothing. Just his lips against mine, his tongue parting to tangle, to touch, to knead. I leaned into him slightly, pressing against him ever so harder, and he deepened the kiss, a touch, a lick, but nothing more. And then he pulled back, his shoulders shifting as he took deep breaths.

“Bodhi?” I said after a moment of silence that felt as if knives cut between us.

Finally, he stared into my eyes and then shook his head. “I’m not sorry,” he said after a moment, and my heart swelled.

“I’m not sorry because I don’t want to be the one who hurts you. Not again. But I can’t do this.” And then he stood up, dropping my hand, and walked down the stairs of the deck and into the forest.

I knocked my head against the railing and let out a deep breath.

It was for the best. I knew it.

Yet I hated the fact that I now knew how that man kissed.

Chapter 9

BODHI

Things were weird, and it was my fault. I knew that. I shouldn’t have done it. No, I hadn’t even realized I was going to lean forward and kiss her until it was too late. But she had looked so damn cute with the hat covering her eyes, and a little bit of dirt on her cheek from when she had wiped her face with the back of her hand in the heat.

Kiera West bothered me. And not in the way that most people would think. She intrigued me. And I wanted to know more about her. But the act of doing so would be too much. We both knew that. I should not have kissed her.

But she had kissed me back.

I swallowed hard and slammed my fist into the punching bag once again.

I wore only gym shorts, sneakers, and the tape over my knuckles.

Sweat slipped down my back, and I figured I should probably add another fan to this room. I didn’t always work out here, as working with wood, as I did, was usually enough of a strength workout. But after the fire, I needed some way to get back on my feet. Physical therapy had been a bitch. I hadn’t lost mobility, thankfully. But figuring out how to move this body in a new way, thanks to the burns on my skin that changed the elasticity, meant that I hadn’t been able to jump right back to my old ways of doing things. I was very grateful that I could even move the way that I did now. There were some people in the burn unit down in Denver who were still there. Others had lost the ability to move their fingers, walk, or even see.

Other than the few scars that ran down my body, I looked none the worse for wear. My face looked just fine. I looked just fine.

But I wasn’t. And those who knew me understood. Only I was afraid that I didn’t know the truth.

“Hey.” I whirled, fist ready to punch out, and froze when I realized who stood in the doorway.

Thatcher moved forward, a frown on his face, and his youngest at his side. My gaze went right to Wesley, and I lifted my chin at the seven-year-old.

“I didn’t realize you guys were here.” I lifted my fist to Wesley, who fist-bumped me back. “Hey, little man.”

“Will you teach me how to hit like that?” he asked, nearly dancing on his toes. Wesley had a bountiful amount of energy, and I didn’t know how Thatcher kept up with him in addition to the fifteen-year-old twins. The man never slept.

“If your dad says it’s okay. Though to be truthful, your dad’s the one who taught me.”

Wesley’s eyes widened, and he looked up at his dad. “Really?”

Thatcher gave me a look and then rolled his eyes. “Thanks for that. Yes. Your old man knows how to box. I just don’t do it that often anymore.”

“Why didn’t you tell me? What else are you hiding?” he asked, and I raised my brows as Thatcher just snorted.