world.
Chapter Ten
Polly
My head lay comfortably on Painter’s chest, and I couldn’t help but wonder how long I was going to let myself stay there.
Not as long as I’d like to. My first thought was far nicer than my second one. Holy hell. I need to get away from this man.
He made it too damned easy to lose focus. All it took was the sound of his deep voice, full of something that sounded an awful lot like genuine caring, and my heart went crazy, my priorities flew out the window, and my panties dropped to the floor.
And I couldn’t even blame Painter. I’d initiated it. Me. Even when he’d practically begged me to stop.
I wasn’t sure exactly what had set me over the edge. The accusation that I was just playing a game? If that was true, I sure as hell wasn’t winning. Or maybe it was his direct, disarming questions. They weren’t easy to dodge. And then there was his admission that he just wanted to be left alone. We were so much the same that it made me ache. I wanted to know more, to find out how deep the invisible connection ran. To say otherwise would’ve been a lie.
But you can’t afford to stay.
Jayme needed me. I needed him.
Thinking of him didn’t just make my heart ache. It made it twist and burn in my chest.
“Polly?”
“Don’t,” I replied softly.
“Don’t what?”
“Talk to me like this changes anything.”
“Doesn’t it?”
“No,” I said.
He gripped my chin gently and he tried to tilt my head up, but I refused to meet his eyes.
Painter sighed. “How can you say it doesn’t?”
“How can you think it does?” I retorted. “Are you going to let me go?”
“I can’t do that,” he admitted.
“And I’m not going to stop trying to get away. So we’re at an impasse.”
He ran a hand down my arm and pushed his palm into my own. His fingers, locked with mine, felt good. And right.
“I’ve been at worse impasses before,” Painter teased. “With worse people.”
“I don’t doubt the part about the worse people,” I muttered, but there was no force behind my words.
Painter’s smile widened and he leaned in to give me a soft kiss. Just like the handholding, the gesture felt natural.
Suddenly, I wanted to tell him the truth about my life. About how it felt to raise myself because my mother wasn’t capable of doing it. About how tired I was of feeling alone. And about Jayme and Cohen.
On the surface, my mind argued against it. I knew better than to trust someone who worked so closely with the man who’d held me against my will for such a large part of my childhood. And it wasn’t like Painter was an innocent man. Whatever he’d done in the past was bad enough that working for Cohen seemed like a better option. Not a good sign.
But what about my own past? It wasn’t perfect, either. Far from it. To get away from Cohen, I’d manipulated and lied and broken laws.
And no one would understand that better than Painter.
My heart told me it was true.
I opened my mouth, but his phone buzzed from somewhere on the ground beside us, stopping me. Painter made no move to answer it. Instead, he took a strand of my hair and wrapped it around his finger.
His phone buzzed again
“Are you going to get that?” I asked.
“No.”
“You should at least check who it is.”
“I’d rather not.”
When it buzzed a third time, I reached over him and fumbled to find it myself. The screen lit up with Cohen’s name. My stomach lurched. I turned back to Painter, and his face said he’d known it before he even saw the caller ID.
“Get it over with, Painter,” I said bitterly. “Talk to him. Tell him you’ve got Jayme.”
He took the phone from my hand and put it face down on the ground, but it was too late. The moment was already lost. I yanked myself from his arms and stood up. I got dressed in a jerky motion, then turned back to him. He hadn’t moved.
“Let’s just go,” I said.
“Polly—” The phone cut off his protest.
I used it as my cue to turn on
Chapter Ten
Polly
My head lay comfortably on Painter’s chest, and I couldn’t help but wonder how long I was going to let myself stay there.
Not as long as I’d like to. My first thought was far nicer than my second one. Holy hell. I need to get away from this man.
He made it too damned easy to lose focus. All it took was the sound of his deep voice, full of something that sounded an awful lot like genuine caring, and my heart went crazy, my priorities flew out the window, and my panties dropped to the floor.
And I couldn’t even blame Painter. I’d initiated it. Me. Even when he’d practically begged me to stop.
I wasn’t sure exactly what had set me over the edge. The accusation that I was just playing a game? If that was true, I sure as hell wasn’t winning. Or maybe it was his direct, disarming questions. They weren’t easy to dodge. And then there was his admission that he just wanted to be left alone. We were so much the same that it made me ache. I wanted to know more, to find out how deep the invisible connection ran. To say otherwise would’ve been a lie.
But you can’t afford to stay.
Jayme needed me. I needed him.
Thinking of him didn’t just make my heart ache. It made it twist and burn in my chest.
“Polly?”
“Don’t,” I replied softly.
“Don’t what?”
“Talk to me like this changes anything.”
“Doesn’t it?”
“No,” I said.
He gripped my chin gently and he tried to tilt my head up, but I refused to meet his eyes.
Painter sighed. “How can you say it doesn’t?”
“How can you think it does?” I retorted. “Are you going to let me go?”
“I can’t do that,” he admitted.
“And I’m not going to stop trying to get away. So we’re at an impasse.”
He ran a hand down my arm and pushed his palm into my own. His fingers, locked with mine, felt good. And right.
“I’ve been at worse impasses before,” Painter teased. “With worse people.”
“I don’t doubt the part about the worse people,” I muttered, but there was no force behind my words.
Painter’s smile widened and he leaned in to give me a soft kiss. Just like the handholding, the gesture felt natural.
Suddenly, I wanted to tell him the truth about my life. About how it felt to raise myself because my mother wasn’t capable of doing it. About how tired I was of feeling alone. And about Jayme and Cohen.
On the surface, my mind argued against it. I knew better than to trust someone who worked so closely with the man who’d held me against my will for such a large part of my childhood. And it wasn’t like Painter was an innocent man. Whatever he’d done in the past was bad enough that working for Cohen seemed like a better option. Not a good sign.
But what about my own past? It wasn’t perfect, either. Far from it. To get away from Cohen, I’d manipulated and lied and broken laws.
And no one would understand that better than Painter.
My heart told me it was true.
I opened my mouth, but his phone buzzed from somewhere on the ground beside us, stopping me. Painter made no move to answer it. Instead, he took a strand of my hair and wrapped it around his finger.
His phone buzzed again
“Are you going to get that?” I asked.
“No.”
“You should at least check who it is.”
“I’d rather not.”
When it buzzed a third time, I reached over him and fumbled to find it myself. The screen lit up with Cohen’s name. My stomach lurched. I turned back to Painter, and his face said he’d known it before he even saw the caller ID.
“Get it over with, Painter,” I said bitterly. “Talk to him. Tell him you’ve got Jayme.”
He took the phone from my hand and put it face down on the ground, but it was too late. The moment was already lost. I yanked myself from his arms and stood up. I got dressed in a jerky motion, then turned back to him. He hadn’t moved.
“Let’s just go,” I said.
“Polly—” The phone cut off his protest.
I used it as my cue to turn on
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