Can't Hardly Breathe. Gena Showalter
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don’t know about you,” he said, the husky note back in his voice, “but I’m imagining you seated on that counter...naked.”
This. This was the tone he would use in bed. The one he would use to whisper into a woman’s ear, driving her wild with raw, primitive passion.
“Your legs are spread, and I’m—”
“Fine!” she blurted out. “You can get to know me today. Okay? All right?” Anything to shut him up. If he continued to weave such an intoxicating picture, her resistance would shatter. She would end up in his arms, the consequences an afterthought. “What would you like to know?”
His eyelids were heavy, almost drowsy. “For starters, what’s your favorite color?”
Spray, spray. Wipe, wipe. Could he see how fervently she trembled? “I like pink in the morning, blue in the afternoon and gold in the evening.”
The corners of his lips quirked up, as if a smile was attempting to sneak past his usual frown. “That’s pretty specific. I would have guessed red, the color of your fingernails.”
“Well, my color favorites change according to the position of the sun. And the nail colors aren’t based on what I like but on my mood.”
One of his brows winged up. “Please tell me red is for passion.”
She fought a smile of her own. “Nope. Red is anger. I don’t actually have a color for—” She pressed her lips together. Crap! She’d basically admitted passion had no identifier and therefore no place in her life.
He could have teased her. Or come on to her, flirting more obviously. Instead, he quieted, different emotions whirling behind his eyes. Intrigue. Desire. Confusion.
“What do yellow and orange mean?” he finally asked. “Actually, tell me all the colors.”
Why not? “Yellow is hopeful, orange nervousness. Green is irritated, pink happy. Blue is sad, purple determined.” She stopped, pressed her lips together. Sharing these details made her feel exposed. Wanting the spotlight taken off herself, she said, “What’s your favorite color?”
“Yellow. No matter the time of day.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s bright? Mellow?”
“You don’t know?” To her, yellow represented the rise of the sun. The start of a new day. A clean slate.
“Never really thought about why. I like what I like.” He crossed his arms, his biceps straining the tee. “How’d you get the nickname Dottie? Those adorable freckles?”
“Adorable? As if! But yes, that’s exactly why, and I hate it. I’ve always hated it.”
“I think it’s endearing. More than that, Dorothea doesn’t fit you. It’s the name of a ninety-year-old crazy cat lady. So why have you stuck with it?”
“Never really thought about why,” she said, mimicking him. “I like what I like.”
His grin bloomed full force, causing her hormones to sing and dance with bliss. “Well, I’m a rebel, so I’m gonna mix things up and call you...Thea. Yeah. Thea. Short and incredibly sweet.”
She gulped. He was incredibly sweet. Feigning nonchalance, she said, “All right. I’ll call you Danny.”
He laughed with delight. “Look at us. We’ve got pet names for each other already.” Then his amusement died a swift death, his smile fading.
Why the change?
“Did you always want to run the inn?” he asked, switching gears.
“No,” she replied, and cringed. Her mother would be devastated if she found out Dorothea saw the job as, well, a job rather than a passion. “I wanted to be a meteorologist.”
“So why aren’t you a meteorologist?”
Let me count the ways... “It’s a long story.” Her guts churned as years of bad memories whisked through her mind.
“No worries. I’ve got time.”
“Too bad. I’ve got no inclination.”
He thought for a moment, nodded. “That’s fair. There are things I never share with others.”
“Never?” Not with anyone?
“Never.” Did he realize his gaze had glazed over, the color seeping from his cheeks? Did he know he was rubbing a small scar on his cheek?
That scar...she thought she remembered his dad talking about Daniel’s face being lacerated by shrapnel.
Did his secrets have anything to do with his many missions overseas?
She ran the rag over the faucet, the inside of the sink. “Did you always want to be in the military?” Wait. She had to stop asking him such personal questions. Nowhere in her Make Daniel Go Bye-Bye plan did she get to know him better.
“As a little boy, I ruthlessly and relentlessly led my toys into war. Stuffed animals against action figures. I’d be working my way to general if my dad’s health hadn’t deteriorated.”
Her heart melted as she pictured little Daniel commanding his furry or plastic troops. She’d played with Barbies, sending them into rainstorms and tornadoes—the washing machine and the dryer.
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