Tonight he’d told her his modus operandi was to leave before any woman could demean him. Well, Hannah wasn’t going to allow that. She could show up after their argument, after the hurtful words and revelations, and prove their relationship was resilient. That he could be part of something stronger than the pull of the past. That she could look him in the eye and respect him and care. She could show up, period. That was what she’d been doing all along, perhaps subconsciously, and she wasn’t getting off course now. Hopefully she would leave Fox with the belief, the possibility, of more.
The courage and confidence to try again.
Hannah’s eyes landed on the folder of sea shanties resting on her bed.
Yes, tomorrow she’d fight, in more ways than one.
Chapter Nineteen
Fox stood at the stove, spatula in hand, his gaze fastened to the door of the guest room, every cell in his body on high alert. Who was going to walk out that door? Or, more importantly, what was her game?
He’d barely slept at all last night, replaying the drive home. Every word she’d said, the meaning behind that kiss outside the apartment. What the hell was she playing at? He’d told her, plain as day, that they weren’t going to bed together. That she should stick with her director, because nothing more than friendship could come from this thing between them.
Why did all those statements seem so empty now?
Probably because if she walked out of the guest room at this moment and kissed him, he would drop to his knees and weep with gratitude.
I’m wrapped around her little finger.
He needed to unwrap himself. Fast.
Didn’t he?
Here he was, making her pancakes, more apologies for the inexcusable thing he’d said to her last night crammed up tight behind his windpipe. Then it’s a good thing we’re not going to fuck, because you’d just be another hookup to me afterward.
Christ, he didn’t deserve to live after lying like that.
Or better yet, he did deserve to live with the expression on her face afterward and the knowledge that he’d put it there. Scumbag. How dare he? How dare he say poisonous shit like that to this girl who, perhaps unwisely, gave a damn about him?
He’d spent a long time trying to avoid the belittling expression on a woman’s face when she implied he was a hall pass or a meaningless diversion. The one Melinda had all those years ago while lying in bed with his best friend. He’d never thought about seeing that look on Hannah’s face—not until last night. Not until he’d confessed everything to her and his past had nearly crowded him out of the car.
If Hannah ever looked at him like that, she might as well slice the heart right out of his chest. Melinda’s betrayal would be laughable compared to what Hannah’s disappointment or dismissal would do to him. Even the possibility had caused him to strike first. To say something to push her away and protect himself in the process.
God. He’d hurt her.
And she might have expressed that pain, but . . . she’d forgiven him with that kiss.
That purposeful, no-holding-back kiss.
Which brought him back to his current worry. Who would walk out of the guest-room door? His best girl Hannah? Or Hannah with a plan? Because that kiss last night, the one that turned his dick into a stone monument, had resolve behind it. She’d stroked his tongue without any hesitation. Like she wanted him to know she meant it. She was all in. And that terrified him as much as it . . .
Teased hope to life in his chest.
Dangerous, stupid hope that made him ask questions like What if?
What if he just put his head down and dealt with the lack of respect from his crew? Took on some of the responsibilities he tried so hard to avoid?
Because someone worthy of Hannah would need to be responsible. Not him. Right? Just . . . someone. Whoever it was. He couldn’t have an apartment totally lacking in character or comforts. He would need to have upward mobility in his job. Like going from a relief skipper to the captain. But that was just an example, because he wasn’t referring to himself.
He wasn’t.
Fox nodded firmly and flipped the pancake on the griddle, approximately 4.8 seconds passing before his attention snuck back to the door to watch the shadows move underneath. How ridiculous to miss someone he’d only seen the night before. Starting tomorrow, he’d be on the boat for five days. If he missed her after one night apart, 120 hours were going to be pretty damn inconvenient. Maybe he should practice blocking the emotion now.
You don’t miss her.
He examined the churning in his chest.
Well, that hadn’t worked.