That Kind Of Girl. Kim Mckade

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СКАЧАТЬ herself she didn’t care. “I know,” she said quietly.

      “Oh, don’t get mad. I’m not talking about your looks. Sure, you look a lot better with your hair all—” He made a vague motion in the general direction of her head. “All up and out of your face. At least people can see how pretty your face is now. And you dress better, that’s for damn sure. But I’m talking about the way you always felt just fine living in your little fantasy world. If you couldn’t have what you wanted, you just pretended like you did. Or pretended like you didn’t want it.” He shook his head and stepped back. “That always confused the hell out of me.”

      Since she couldn’t have spoken coherently to save her soul, Becca just stared at him.

      “What’s this?” he asked, pointing at the drawing on her easel. “Your idea of the perfect pretend couple?”

      Becca cleared her throat and blinked, moving around to face the easel. “Not hardly,” she said. “This is a drawing I’m doing for Dunleavy’s Department Store ads.” She picked up the graphite stick and fiddled a little with the guy’s tux. “They’re far from perfect.”

      Colt grunted. “The guy looks like a real wuss.”

      “Oh, he is.” She motioned to the bride with her chin. “She’s got him completely whipped.”

      “Probably reads his horoscope daily and has his remote controls color-coded. His chin is weak.”

      Becca grabbed her eraser. Within a few minutes the groom’s chin could have broken granite. “That’s better. But still, he’s not quite…” She picked up her thinner pencil and sharpened it. A few strokes later, the groom had a thin scar threading below his eye.

      “Bar fight?” Colt asked.

      “An unfortunate accident with the weed trimmer. He keeps an immaculate lawn, you know. Won an award from the neighborhood association.”

      She glanced at Colt and saw that he was grinning. A real grin—not the one he dragged out that was supposed to make people think everything was okay.

      She tapped the pencil against her chin. “I know what’s missing.” She stepped up to block Colt’s view and spent a few moments working on the groom’s hair. With a satisfied sigh she stepped back. “One lock of hair, falling rakishly over his forehead.”

      “Rakishly?”

      “It’s a word. There now. The perfect groom.”

      “And that’s the standard? Rakish hair?”

      “Of course. A lock of hair falling rakishly over the forehead signals the perfect balance of vulnerability and masculinity. Very sexy, don’t you think?”

      He shrugged. “Doesn’t really do anything for me. Sorry. What are we going to do about her?”

      Becca sighed. “There’s not a lot we can do, unfortunately. The dress is far too frou-frou my taste. But since the dress is the whole reason for the ad, it’s got to stay— I’m going to start dinner. Hungry?”

      “Always. What are we having?”

      “I’ll let you know as soon as I know. Your hesitation has cost you one of my world-famous lasagnas, I’m afraid. I don’t have time now. But I’ll dig up something.”

      “Are these yours, too?” He motioned to canvases stacked against the wall.

      She nodded.

      “Mind if I take a look?”

      Actually, the idea held the same level of appeal as if he’d asked to look through her underwear drawer. But since she couldn’t think of a logical reason to tell him no, she simply nodded. “Go ahead. I’ll be in the kitchen.”

      Colt watched her go, chewing the inside of his lip. He still couldn’t decide if it had been a good idea to come over here tonight. The live wire of anger still fizzled in him. He’d even argued with her over her painting on the wall, though she hadn’t seemed to mind. She didn’t seem to mind anything, really.

      But then, that was Becca. Everything pretty much rolled off her back, always had. He was still a little disappointed she hadn’t made it out of Aloma. Not surprised, but a little disappointed, for her. He figured that night twelve years ago was the only time she’d ever allowed herself to admit that she had dreams, that she wanted more than what she had.

      He flipped through the stack of canvases, remembering the last night he’d seen her, the night of high school graduation. She’d been desperate to get out of town then, desperate to get away from her mother. Desperate enough to offer herself to him as a way out.

      He cleared his throat as that particular memory took its effect on him. On more than one occasion he’d regretted the necessity of telling her no that night. No to taking her with him, and no to taking her to bed. But it didn’t take a genius to know he’d made the right decision. Still, if things had been different…

      If things had been different, she wouldn’t have given up and resigned herself to a lonely life in the back of nowhere. And he wouldn’t be here cleaning up after the mess of a drunken bum.

      He let the stack of canvases fall back against the wall, sick of his own thoughts. It was the real reason he’d come over, he reminded to himself. He was tired of his own company. And Becca was one hell of an improvement.

      She didn’t hear him step up to the kitchen door. She stood at the counter slicing mushrooms, humming softly to herself. Her slender bare feet poked out beneath the shapeless sweats, and she reached up to brush away a strand of hair that had fallen and lay at her neck.

      Colt stepped up to her and pulled at the pencil that held her hair up. “What’s this—uh-oh,” he said as her hair came tumbling down. “Sorry.”

      Her hair fell, and his hand fisted loosely in it. Becca looked at him over her shoulder, and for a moment their eyes met, and held. Colt rubbed the slippery strands of hair between his fingers, then shifted his hand to cup the back of her neck. The cords of it felt fine and delicate beneath his fingers. Her eyes grew wide—dark green pools that looked bigger now that they weren’t hidden behind glasses. For an intense flash, Colt remembered what it had been like to kiss her, to have her on his lap, offering him everything. His eyes drifted down to her lips and watched them part almost imperceptibly.

      Then she drew away, smoothing back her hair. “That’s okay,” she said. She fumbled with it, then finally let it drift loose down her back. She looked at the counter, the piles of chopped vegetables in front of her, anywhere but at him. “I hope omelettes are okay.”

      “Anything sounds good to me right now,” he said. “Been a while since I’ve had a decent meal at all.”

      He leaned back against the doorjamb and crossed his arms over his chest. What the hell had that been about?

      Becca continued to move around the kitchen, chattering as if the moment hadn’t happened, chopping her vegetables. He hadn’t meant to scare her. But then, he hadn’t really meant to touch her. He had to admit, though, it had felt nice.

      The last time he’d seen Becca, she’d been sitting on his lap, kissing him almost past the point of no return. It was hard to look at her now and not think of that СКАЧАТЬ