Glacial runoff, I think.
Glacial lakes, their green so pure, so vivid, and so pale.
But her eyes could never be as cold as ice, watching me with a warmth I have no fucking clue what to do with.
So I tear my eyes away before hers do a Medusa trick on me. Eyes that pretty could turn a man to stone, and it’d almost be worth it for the poor sucker who stares at her too long.
Clearing my throat, I turn my face to one side.
“Feels like you’re done,” I mutter. “Haven’t we been at this an hour?”
I hear her breath catch, and then her hands drop away. “For now, yep. You’ll need more than one session to see lasting results instead of just temporary relief. How do you feel?”
I shift my leg gingerly—and I’m surprised how easy it moves.
I’d been locking up, bracing for agony, but instead my leg flexes nice and smooth, bending and unbending, with only a little soreness that could be just as much from the kneading those nimble fingers gave me as from the injury.
“Huh. Not bad,” I say.
Dumb, I know, but that’s all I got.
I push myself up on one arm, staring down at the scar. It’s still there, still the same angry red, but it doesn’t feel like this vampire parasite, sucking my life out through its burning teeth right now.
“Well?” She taps a foot, giving me a smile.
“It ain’t perfect, but I think I can stand without wanting to holler myself blue. Warren and Haley’s little niece would never shut up about the damn swear jar if she ever heard me go off.”
Peace giggles.
“We wouldn’t want you going blue or bankrupting yourself,” she says.
I let myself look at her again. But she’s not looking at me.
She’s turned away, her hands busy wiping the oil off on a towel.
I think it might be deliberate.
Feels like she’s hiding from me, almost.
Did I just fuck up?
Maybe a little.
“Hey.” I swing my legs over the side carefully, then drop down to my feet. My left leg’s still a little shaky, but it holds me pretty well as I stand and reach over for my clothing. “You did good, darlin’. I’m sorry I ever doubted you. How much do I owe?”
She glances over her shoulder. Her smile comes faint, wistful, sad; those jade-green eyes are suddenly clouded, and I can’t see to their bottoms.
“Freebie this time,” she says, quiet and strange. “Call it thanks for saving me from turning into Frosty the other night.”
“You, uh...” I scrub my hand against the back of my neck, then busy myself stepping into my boxer-briefs and jeans. Maybe if I’m more clothed, I’ll feel less naked, but something about this has nothing to do with my damn body. “You want to schedule another appointment?”
She studies me. Her head tilts to one side.
Christ, she’s so young, but sometimes when she looks at me it’s with this wordless wisdom that makes me feel like she sees so much beyond her years.
Sees me.
And that shouldn’t make me want to freak as much as it does.
“How about,” she murmurs, “you find me when you need me?”
There’s so much unsaid there.
So much I can’t read, even if I want to.
So I pull my shirt on, throw my coat over my arm, and nod.
“Sure,” I say numbly. “Thanks.”
Then I turn and get the hell out of Dodge, leaving that cabin and heading into the morning so the cold winter air can slap some sense into my fool head.
If I’m lucky, it’ll knock this girl clean out of my thoughts.
Call me paranoid, but there’s a part of me that doesn’t want Holt in my house.
Call it a holdover.
When you walk in on your brother with his arms around your wife, leaning in with his mouth half an inch from hers, and she’s a blushing, flustered mess, shit gets real.
You get territorial.
Your fists go on autopilot.
Your throat can’t roar loud enough, even when it’s shaking the whole house.
And years later, you meet your brother for dinner at the local diner, instead of making him welcome at your kitchen table. Last minute change, I know, but he doesn’t argue.
Doesn’t matter what was going on between me and Abby.
He could’ve at least waited till we were done sorting our shit and officially separated before he made his move.
Too bad Holt’s always liked having things he shouldn’t.
That’s where the rush is for him: the wrong woman, the wrong decision, the wrong three-day bender in Venice with a half-plastic Italian chick on his arm.
The fact that he’s here looking for reconciliation with me and a relationship with my daughter is just sending up so many red flags it’d make the old Soviet commies blush.
Since Holt always wants things he shouldn’t, it makes me wonder why he wants this.
At least he’s keeping my mind off Peace, though.
Off the way the sunlight buried itself in her hair like loving fingers as she bent over me, caressing that vivid red to gold fire dipped in blazing purple.
Off our last weird little interaction. Where I knew I’d said too much, and she felt me holding back, and both of us maybe regretted being too open, too intense, too real.
We’re perfect strangers. And even if I saved her from a pretty routine fire under the hood and she massaged away my pain, we don’t know each other. We’ve got no good reason to.
Fuck. Right. Not thinking about Peace.
Not that the subtle glare Holt gives off is much better.
He’s Mr. Congeniality, all smiles as he regales Andrea with tales of New York City. Hell, I hadn’t even known he’d lived in NYC so long. Last I heard, he was still in Coeur d’Alene with Ma and then spending time in the Air Force, but I guess he’s been living it up rich with the money she left behind.
But as he gears up into a story about a one-night stand with not one, but six supermodels, I grunt, leaning forward to pick up the soda I really wish was a beer right now.
“Hey,” I bite off. “That’s not appropriate in front of my kid.”
Andrea’s smile vanishes.
So much for putting out fires.
My fucking talent is killing my daughter’s buzz.
“God, Dad,” she groans. “I’m not a kid. I’m sixteen. There’re worse things on Netflix.”
Holt grins—that wide, charming devil’s grin I despise. “She’s right. I mean, when you were sixteen you were—”
“Hey!” I snarl, my ears going red-hot. “Listen, that’s definitely not appropriate in front of my kid!”
But Andrea’s eyes light up, and she’s all for it, leaning in with a wicked grin that makes the Silverton blood resemblance shine. “Oh, no. I think this is definitely appropriate. You’ve got embarrassing stories about Dad?”
She’s not even paying attention to her food going cold on her plate, the ice cream in her root beer float melted away into a foamy white slurry on top of the soda.
There are no words for how much I hate this, even if it’s making my daughter smile.
And even if I know it’s technically Holt’s job as her uncle.
I might not trust him, but at least he’s doing his best to get along with her.