CHAPTER FIVE

Stella

I tuck my phone into my purse and survey the tall antique bookshelf I've managed to paint the perfect shade of pink. The second coat will have to wait for tomorrow. I use the hammer I borrowed from Malcom to close the paint tightly and rinse the paintbrush in the bathroom. When I look up, I see I have small specks of pink splattered across my cheeks and stuck in my hair.

My apartment is only ten minutes from here and I promised my dad I'd make him dinner tonight at my place. I want to fit in a quick shower before he comes over. The paint can wait until then to come off. I pull my sweater on and put my purse over my shoulder. Then I make sure the deadbolt on the front door is latched before grabbing the trash bag I left near the back and the hammer. I could probably leave the trash inside, but I like coming into a clean shop each time—and maybe I also like running into a certain interesting neighbor who might be throwing things out also. He's like a puzzle I'm dying to put together.

Tonight, I'm not disappointed. The crash of glass breaking as I step into the small garbage area has my heart racing. His hand is no longer bandaged and it looks like I've either missed the show or he only had one growler to destroy tonight. He stands with his hands on his hips and his head tipped back, sucking in and exhaling large breaths.

Byron makes me forget I'm tired. Being near him erases the ache from my muscles and instead I feel heated all the way to my bones. It's probably from the way my heart beats quicker around him, or the sudden dump of adrenaline that happens just from being this close. He excites me and I tell myself it's because I can't figure him out. Malcom is easy; he is friendly and approachable. Byron—he's mysterious and dark somehow. He's too young to seem as old as he does—to have so much baggage he's carrying behind those dark eyes.

"Lovely Language?" he asks with his back still to me. His voice is deep and rough. I've never seen him smoke and yet I swear it sounds like he has that sexy pack-a-day sound without the cancer risk or ashtray scent. In fact, he smells like soap, alcohol, hard work, and experience.

"Yes. That's what I'm naming it," I answer. My stomach lifts and my heart flutters when he glances back at me over his shoulder. I realize I want him to approve and I instantly hate that. I don't need his approval or his opinion. What's the matter with me? It must be the lack of sleep or maybe the lack of protein. I really need this dinner I'm making tonight.

"Alliteration," he says softly and it's the first time I think I see any hint of a smile, but it is gone so quickly I can't be sure. He takes my bag again and heaves it into the dumpster.

"The woman before me used alliteration," I realize aloud. He must have known her, at least in the way he knows me.

"Bookstore, right?" he asks, changing the subject.

"Um, yes. Romance only." I stumble on the words. "Did you know the previous tenant?"

"Is that our hammer?" he points to the tool in my hand.

"Yes. Malcom loaned it to me earlier." I hand it to him. "Thanks. I'll remember my own tomorrow."

"It's not a problem," he says, but the tone isn't light or easy. I get the feeling there is a problem and the longer we stand here the more I wonder if the problem is with me. I cross my arms to fight the chill, still unsure if it's really the temperature that makes goosebumps rise along my skin. I don't know how it's possible to feel warm on the inside and yet acutely aware of the cold coming from him.

Our eye contact is broken when his blue eyes drift up. He reaches out and tenderly grazes my forehead with his thumb. "You have paint all over your face." His touch seems to sink into me deeply. My eyes close and my chest tightens. I wonder if he feels the way my flesh becomes warmer beneath his fingertip. He is such a contradiction—stiff and untouchable, but also pliant and caressing.

"I know," I say softly. "I was going to wash it off later." I open my eyes slowly.

Don't stare at him.

He's watching me. His fingers drift delicately across my cheek where I'd seen

the tiny dots of dried paint earlier. This dusting of his skin against mine is so intimate and yet so innocent. I'm not breathing. I focus on pushing the air from my lungs as his fingers gently lift from my heated skin.

His eyes are zeroed in on my mouth and I instinctively let my tongue slide across my bottom lip, feeling the warm, wet heat where the cool night has chilled my flesh. It's his turn now to hold his breath. My hands are noticeably empty and I fight the urge to reach up and touch his face. I want to know what it would feel like to press my lips to his.

It's over too soon, but also not soon enough. His fist drops to his side and I feel the loss of its warmth immediately. I'm suddenly aware of how easily I allowed him to touch me and what the consequences could have been. My head hurts from the force of my heart pumping blood with renewed vigor in my chest.

"You should go," he tells me flatly. That voice that I've already memorized cuts me somehow and he turns from me as if our exchange was nothing more than business as usual.

Had I imagined the connection?

"Right. Thanks again for the hammer." I shake my head twice, trying to rattle the events into place so they make sense. It's an exercise in futility. Taking two steps back, I watch him as he rakes his free hand into his hair, the only tell that maybe he's not as unaffected as he's pretending to be.

Byron simply wiped paint from my face. It must be the stress of opening a business that has me questioning everything, right down to my neighbor's every little movement. I laugh out loud as I unlock my car and toss my purse onto the passenger seat. I rub a hand down my face and shake my head. I need to get a grip. I buckle my seat belt and pull my car out of the lot. By the time I pull onto the street, I feel relaxed. It's just my nerves that are getting to me. Opening a business from scratch is big. I'm young and totally new to this. The signs fly by quickly as my car is swallowed up with the weeknight commuters. I find my thoughts drifting off in many directions as I drive along the road to my place. The one I can't seem to shake is the same one that keeps me up at night, will we ever find our way back to the way we were before her.