midsection rising and lowering with each deep breath, past the bulge indicating his gender, to long, powerful legs. She knew the exact moment he became aware of her presence. The sudden tension of his body forced her to look up.
He hadn’t shaved. Stubble darkened his jaw and outlined the firm line of his mouth. A smattering of hair, damp and matted from the run, arrowed toward his waist. Her breathing grew ragged. Not from exertion, but from apprehension. She had initiated this meeting, it was up to her to tell him what she wanted. But her tight throat wouldn’t allow speech.
Adam closed the refrigerator and set the bottle on the counter.After grabbing his T-shirt off the chair, he wiped his face and chest.
“What do you want?”
He stood with his hands on his hips. The elastic of his shorts dipped scandalously low; he looked every inch a dangerous man. Billie had the same way of standing, of looking defiant and angry. But Billie was only eight, still a child. Adam was—Adam was the girl’s father.
“I ordered a replacement for the window,” she blurted out.
His mouth twisted with irritation, but he didn’t speak.
“I wanted you to know. It should be here Monday. They’ll install it and everything.”
“Fine.”
He stood there, perhaps sensing there was more, or waiting for her to leave. Those eyes, she thought, at last letting her gaze meet his. Those damn eyes. He still made her feel young and foolish. At seventeen, the six years difference in their ages had loomed between them like an uncrossable bridge. He’d been forced into adulthood by the death of his parents and the responsibility of his siblings. She’d been forced into adulthood by her own actions.
“I’m sorry,” she said at last.
“Did Billie break something else?”
“No. I’m sorry for—” She clasped her hands together to stop their trembling. “Dammit, Adam, say something.”
“Such as?”
“Why are you so calm about this? I waltz in here after being gone almost nine years and it’s like nothing happened.”
He shook his head impatiently. “I don’t have time for reminiscing. I’m not interested in the past. It’s done with. Let it go. I have.”
“You’re lying.”
“And you’re beating a dead horse.”
He moved to walk past her. She touched his arm to stop him. Her fingers brushed against hot, damp skin. A current leapt between them and she jerked back, half expecting to see smoke. He froze in mid-stride, caught between her and the counter.
“What do you want?” he asked, shifting until one hip braced against the cupboard. The T-shirt hung over one shoulder.
She stared at the hem of the garment, studying the tiny stitches as if the answer lay hidden in the weave or the design.
“I’m moving in next door.”
“So?”
“There’s no way to avoid—”
“The hell there isn’t. I don’t want to be friends. I don’t, as a rule, socialize with my neighbors. So your living there doesn’t matter to me.”
She told herself his disinterest came from pain, but a part of her wondered if she was wrong. Was Charlene speaking the truth? Had Adam recovered from what had happened? Did she not matter anymore?
“Billie likes you.”
“And I like her. I’ll be friends with the kid. I don’t need to deal with you for that.”
If only it were that simple.
“So the past means nothing?” she asked. She knew she was really asking if
she
meant nothing.
He shifted. Again she risked raising her gaze to his. The brown irises had darkened to black. The lines bracketing his mouth deepened.
“What do you want from me, Jane? You want me to tell you I still think about you? I can’t, because I don’t. It’s over. I’ve moved on.”
“I’m not asking if you think about—” this was harder than she’d thought “—me. I understand that we’ve both moved on. But I won’t believe you’ve forgotten what happened. How it made you feel. Or what I did.”
He looked away then, staring past her to
He hadn’t shaved. Stubble darkened his jaw and outlined the firm line of his mouth. A smattering of hair, damp and matted from the run, arrowed toward his waist. Her breathing grew ragged. Not from exertion, but from apprehension. She had initiated this meeting, it was up to her to tell him what she wanted. But her tight throat wouldn’t allow speech.
Adam closed the refrigerator and set the bottle on the counter.After grabbing his T-shirt off the chair, he wiped his face and chest.
“What do you want?”
He stood with his hands on his hips. The elastic of his shorts dipped scandalously low; he looked every inch a dangerous man. Billie had the same way of standing, of looking defiant and angry. But Billie was only eight, still a child. Adam was—Adam was the girl’s father.
“I ordered a replacement for the window,” she blurted out.
His mouth twisted with irritation, but he didn’t speak.
“I wanted you to know. It should be here Monday. They’ll install it and everything.”
“Fine.”
He stood there, perhaps sensing there was more, or waiting for her to leave. Those eyes, she thought, at last letting her gaze meet his. Those damn eyes. He still made her feel young and foolish. At seventeen, the six years difference in their ages had loomed between them like an uncrossable bridge. He’d been forced into adulthood by the death of his parents and the responsibility of his siblings. She’d been forced into adulthood by her own actions.
“I’m sorry,” she said at last.
“Did Billie break something else?”
“No. I’m sorry for—” She clasped her hands together to stop their trembling. “Dammit, Adam, say something.”
“Such as?”
“Why are you so calm about this? I waltz in here after being gone almost nine years and it’s like nothing happened.”
He shook his head impatiently. “I don’t have time for reminiscing. I’m not interested in the past. It’s done with. Let it go. I have.”
“You’re lying.”
“And you’re beating a dead horse.”
He moved to walk past her. She touched his arm to stop him. Her fingers brushed against hot, damp skin. A current leapt between them and she jerked back, half expecting to see smoke. He froze in mid-stride, caught between her and the counter.
“What do you want?” he asked, shifting until one hip braced against the cupboard. The T-shirt hung over one shoulder.
She stared at the hem of the garment, studying the tiny stitches as if the answer lay hidden in the weave or the design.
“I’m moving in next door.”
“So?”
“There’s no way to avoid—”
“The hell there isn’t. I don’t want to be friends. I don’t, as a rule, socialize with my neighbors. So your living there doesn’t matter to me.”
She told herself his disinterest came from pain, but a part of her wondered if she was wrong. Was Charlene speaking the truth? Had Adam recovered from what had happened? Did she not matter anymore?
“Billie likes you.”
“And I like her. I’ll be friends with the kid. I don’t need to deal with you for that.”
If only it were that simple.
“So the past means nothing?” she asked. She knew she was really asking if
she
meant nothing.
He shifted. Again she risked raising her gaze to his. The brown irises had darkened to black. The lines bracketing his mouth deepened.
“What do you want from me, Jane? You want me to tell you I still think about you? I can’t, because I don’t. It’s over. I’ve moved on.”
“I’m not asking if you think about—” this was harder than she’d thought “—me. I understand that we’ve both moved on. But I won’t believe you’ve forgotten what happened. How it made you feel. Or what I did.”
He looked away then, staring past her to
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