Emily senses me standing there and whips around. She doesn't seem embarrassed to be standing there in only my t-shirt and gives me a sleepy, quiet smile. "Good morning."
"Hey," I say lamely. I walk to the coffee pot and she picks up her cup, stepping aside. "How'd you sleep last night?"
"Great actually. Thanks again for giving me your bed."
After I pour my cup, I turn around and lean back against the counter. Taking a sip, I watch her over the rim. "After you finish your coffee, I'll take you home."
"It's a plan." She blows lightly on her coffee then takes a sip. "So when do you think you'll have your house ready to move back into?"
"I'm not sure. I'm not on any deadline and just working on it in my free time."
"I bet you're ready to get back though, huh?"
I shrug indifferently. "Sure. I mean, it's closer to my work...just a short walk from the back door to my shop."
She looks strangely at me. "But it's your home. I thought you'd be more comfortable there."
"Why's that?" I ask. I have no clue where she's going with this.
"It's just...you seem like a man that likes his personal space."
Aaahhh. Now I see where she's going. "You'd be right about that. I do like my personal space. But honestly, one bed is just as good as another. I don't have any personal connection to that house."
"It's hard for you to make personal connections, isn't it?"
Now there's a stark question, brutally honest and cutting to the bone. I almost tell her to mind her own f**king business, because that's what I would normally say to anyone that tries to psychoanalyze me.
Instead, and without a trace of bitterness or scorn in my voice, I say, "Yes."
It's a stupid response on my part because it only invites the inevitable follow up question I know is coming.
"Why is that?" Her question is soft...hesitant...nervous. It makes my skin crawl and leap in turns.
"Making personal connections is easy. Losing them is what's hard. It's easier to avoid."
She's staring at me, her eyes are wide and sympathetic. "I imagine you've lost a lot. I'm sorry."
That's all she says and I don't feel like she needs a response from me. I was expecting her to push, prod, and attempt to pull information from me but she doesn't. And she doesn't because I know she can sense that I won't go any further with my sharing.
And this is what's strange about that. Normally, I cut people off with a glare, or glacial frost in my words. It's the standard cue I give when someone needs to back off. Sort of like hackles rising on a dog.
Here I didn't do that. I apparently didn't need to do that. I answered her questions honestly and she knew, on her own, that I'd had enough. She backed off without me needing to become Nix Caldwell, the prick extraordinaire. Emily has a part of me figured out that most don't.
At that intrigues the hell out of me.
***
I'm driving Emily to her apartment. She's changed back into her sexy dress and my mind is having a hard time not considering the miles of leg she that is blatantly inviting me to stare at. You would think the harsh light of day would cause some of the sex appeal to diminish but she had scrubbed her face last night before going to bed, so she looks fresh and young. Her hair is pulled up into some kind of messy concoction on top of her head that makes me want to pull it back down again. She looks supremely beautiful and I’m betting Emily Burnham doesn’t know how to look bad.
Her beauty, though, is not what makes her interesting. I hate to admit it but she's managed to pound a chink in my armor, which has in turn made me curious about her. I'm finding I want to know things about her. Things that I wouldn’t normally give a rat's ass about.
"So, what did you do to piss your parents off that got you cut off from your money?" I broach a subject that will result in, what I hope to be fruitful conversation. The type of conversation that will provide some lucidity as to why I find this woman so intriguing.
She snorts. "I tried to have a life."
I glance over at her and there is bitterness and hurt in her voice. I don't know the story but it makes me want to ring her parents' necks.
"Want to expound?"
She turns in the seat and looks at me. I glance once at her, taking in her bourbon colored eyes that are now filled with acerbic memories. I hesitate a little longer than I should, swimming in her eyes when I should be looking at the road. Her next question jolts me back to reality.
"Have you ever been under someone's complete control?"
"Sure," I answer easily enough. "The Marine Corps. I did what they told me to do, no questions asked."
She's silent because I know I make it sound so effortless and I don't want her to think that is the way of all things. So I clarify my statement. "But, I knew that going in and I accepted it."
"Well, I don't accept it and that's what pisses my mother off."
"So, the little girl is rebelling? Nice!" I'm trying to tease her and it goes over like a ton of bricks.
"I'm not rebelling," she snaps. "I'm trying to live my life with freedom. I'm an adult."
The air is heavy with tension and I feel bad that I made light of what is apparently a very touchy subject for Emily. I didn't mean to hurt her feelings, and the fact I feel badly about it is a new emotion for me. Most of the time, I do mean to hurt people's feelings, so they'll back off and leave me alone. That I want the opposite here has me searching for a way to make this right.