Closer to him, I resist the urge to bury my head in his chest and let the soft cotton of his flannel carry me away.
Wiping his hands on his jeans, he takes the cloth and touches it to my forehead. “Sorry if it burns.”
“It’s fine,” I grit through the sting, but don’t let on. Our eyes lock, heat rises up my chest, neck, and finally my cheeks. Hell, even the tops of my ears join in.
“Does it hurt?” He pins me with his dark eyes. I squirm. Hello, country boy. Fuck, I was missing out back home.
I watch his every move. “No. I think it’s numb.”
He holds my head in his hands, and I sigh. All out sigh and relax. “It doesn’t look like you’re going to need stitches or anything. Just a Band-Aid.” He drops his hands from my face and turns slightly toward the counter. Turning, he grins, and it’s fucking magnificent. “And it looks like I have Elsa or Sponge Bob.”
“I’m an Elsa fan.” I laugh, smiling. Everywhere I look are photographs of the two girls in his life, their sweet drawings, and photographs of them with him. In Tara’s home and her words, there’s not a single mention of these girls, even though I know for a fact she’s their mother. Despite knowing this, I say, “You’re young to have kids.”
He shrugs and there’s gruff laughter on his lips. “I started young.”
“I’ll say. How old are you?”
“Twenty-four.”
Anxiety gnaws at me, my breathing picking up. “Is their mom around?” Part of me wants to make sure he’s who I think he is. Maybe there’s more than one Barron Grady. Could be, right?
His jaw clenches as he peels the bandage from the wrapper, but his expression doesn’t falter. “Nope.”
I swallow and nod, feeling the weight of my lie on my shoulders. “Sorry. I don’t mean to pry into your life.”
After placing the Band-Aid on my forehead, he sighs. “Would you like something to drink? I have water, milk, chocolate milk, and juice. Or beer.”
I push the sleeves of my sweater higher on my forearms, stepping back away from him. “Got anything stronger?”
His lips turn up. “I’m sure I have some wine around here somewhere. I think Carly left a bottle the other night.”
Carly? Who the fuck is Carly? And why do I care? Good Lord, how hard did I hit my head? “I don’t like wine. Got any whiskey?”
He draws in a heavy breath, his half-grin turning into a light chuckle. “You were serious about getting me naked.”
“Well, yeah,” I tease. “But I wouldn’t want to overstep my welcome here.”
“You’re not,” he mumbles, his back to me as he motions toward a locked cabinet he’s opened. “Take your pick.”
He has an impressive stock of whiskey. Must be his favorite because he has about ten bottles of various brands. “Will you part with that Pendleton?”
He reaches for it. “What is it here for if not to drink it?”
“True, but I didn’t know if you were saving it for something special.”
“This is special. You didn’t die, and I didn’t have to explain a dead body to my girls.” Setting the bottle on the kitchen island, he closes the cabinet and then retrieves two glasses from the cabinet.
My heart swells at the way he says “my girls.” It’s clear, just by his actions within the last hour, they mean the world to him.
We take a seat at the kitchen island that’s covered in half-dressed Barbies and what looks like one dressed as a witch. He pours the whiskey, and I can’t help but watch his hands. Long, strong fingers grip the bottle easily, scarred knuckles, and calloused hands, which I want tracing the length of my spine.
I shift in the chair, clearing my throat, fully aware of the what I’m keeping from him but unable to pull away. He’s intriguing, and I can’t place if I’m attracted to his rough side or the mysterious eyes, but I’m pretty sure I’d fuck him just to find out.
We drink in silence, our breathing filling the space between us. I watch his reactions, the gentle breathing, the crease of his brow furrowed with concentration. If I had to guess, this guy keeps the shattered edges of his broken heart on lockdown before his flaws tell their own story. They’re stitched up tight and stuffing the void down deep. And though my presence here tonight is by accident, my lack of words is by design for my reckless selfishness.
“Did you build this place?” I motion around to his home. “It’s really nice.”
“It’s no mansion in the hills, but yes, I built it.”
I drift my stare around to the concrete countertops and stainless steel appliances. From the wood floors to the rough edge beams on the ceiling, it’s clear every detail went into this place. “It’s amazing. You’re talented.”
Clearing his throat, he taps my glass with his and shifts toward me, my senses overwhelmed by the rich smells of leather and man. “Want another?”
I smile. “I thought I was trying to get you naked, not the other way around.”
Barron chuckles, the sound muffled as he turns to reach for the bottle, but he doesn’t offer a response. Hmm. Maybe country boys aren’t as eager to take advantage of girls with long legs and blue eyes.
“In that case, I’d like another.” I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t resist his Southern drawl.
Pouring another, he smirks, his muscles flexing in the most delicious way as he fills my glass. “So… California?”
Handing it to me, our fingers brush. My heart jumps in my chest, and my stomach tightens. Fuck. I need to leave because if I don’t, I know what’s going to happen. I’m going to do something I might regret. I sip the whiskey, the burn welcomed, my eyes drifting shut. “How’d you know?”
“Plates.”
I fall into his dark eyes and know if I stare too long, there’s no going back. “Oh, right.”
“You’re awfully young to be out of town on your own.”
“Old enough.”
He waits as if he’s not going to speak again until I tell him. And then I think, oh, shit. What if he thinks I’m a runaway who stole my dad’s car?
“I’m twenty-one.”
There’s an emotion in his eyes, a tightening of his hand around his glass that I don’t miss. He blinks it away just as quickly and recovers with “Where ya headin’?”
“Anywhere but there.”
“Can’t say I’d stay there either.” He nods, setting his glass down on the coffee table. “Everyone I’ve ever known who lived there never had honest intentions.” His attention is on the glass in front of him, but his words, and the baritone way they rake over my skin, I’m fucking sweating. I can tell by his mannerisms, emotionally unattached is putting this guy in a category too predictable.
Tara definitely fucked him over.
“Have you ever left Texas?”
“Once.” Bringing the whiskey to his lips, his chest expands with a breath, his eyes distant. “Got to the California border and turned back.”
“Why?”
His dark brown eyes shift to mine, and their heat has me twisted toward him, unintentionally. Had I been drawn here for more than just a pee break and a deer that jumped on my hood? Had this guy been put in my path for a reason? “Decided she wasn’t worth it.” He swallows the drink he takes and then blinks away the pain, tipping his glass at the photograph on the wall of him and his kids. “They were though.”