He didn’t know how to finish that sentence. After everything he had said to her before, all the fucked-up rules and restrictions to keep her at a distance, he had no idea how to now bridge the gap between them.
He should have thought about what he wanted to say before inviting her to dinner. He should be the man with a plan. Not this useless tongue-tied prick who had no clue what the fuck he was doing. She deserved better. He had dicked her around enough as it was.
“Should have what?”
He stared blankly at the beers he still held in his hands and his shoulders hunched. He knew he looked defensive and borderline hostile.
“Nothing.” His stomach churned when he saw disappointment spark in her eyes. He couldn’t stand it…he’d been closed off for too long, he didn’t know how else to be.
He had invited her here because she made him want more. He couldn’t talk to her from behind this massive wall he’d erected between himself and the rest of the world.
He loosened one brick—just one—desperate to let a shard of her light shine through, and murmured, “I should have been better. I want to be better.”
Her head tilted and her eyes softened. “Be better at what?”
“Us. Life.” He chewed his cheek apprehensively, breath gone, heartbeat erratic. Only Vicki had the ability to make him feel like this.
Panicked. Nervous. Strained.
Exhilarated. Optimistic. Happy.
“Why don’t we start with dinner and see where that takes us?” she suggested.
Mortified by the over-the-top vehemence he had heard in his voice, Ty latched onto her words gratefully. “Yes, of course. Make yourself at home, please.” He lifted the beers. “I’ll just put these away for after dinner…unless you want one now?”
She wrinkled her nose and pushed her hair behind her ears. “No thanks. I’m not much of a beer drinker.”
He nodded. He knew that, of course. He didn’t know why he had asked. Some dumb, nervous need to fill the space with noise. Something he had once claimed never to do.
“You look good,” he said after he had put the beers in the fridge. He went back to prepping salmon steaks at the island but kept an eye on her as she ambled around his living room.
He tried to remain relaxed while she examined the few tchotchkes and decorative items scattered around the place.
She inspected Tanner’s rare guitar pick collection—framed and centered on a floating shelf in a shallow arched recess in the far corner of the living room. Then she paused in front of the vintage Hopf Archtop guitar on a stand below the shelf.
“Do you play?” she asked, meeting his eyes over her shoulder.
“It’s Tanner’s.”
Her expression softened. “The guitar picks are his as well?”
“Yeah. He was a talented guitarist. He started collecting the picks when he was about ten. And when he was older, every dime he made at his part-time job went towards those things. The guitar was an eighteenth birthday present from my parents.”
“That’s a lovely gift.” Her words revealed nothing of her current state-of-mind.
She turned back to her inspection of his home. Ty felt exposed and uncomfortable having her here, going through his stuff…
He wondered what she thought of his place. He liked it. The apartment was large, high-end, but his décor was pretty spartan compared to the lavishness of the penthouse. He didn’t usually care what people thought of his home. Truthfully, he didn’t have enough people over for it to be a concern. Those who did visit were usually colleagues who cared even less about home décor than Ty did.
Her hands were clasped behind her back—as if she was restraining herself from touching—while she leaned over the vase on the TV stand. It was blue—his mother’s favorite color-misshapen, and barely functional as a vase.
“My mother made that,” he volunteered. She looked back at him. “She was terrible at pottery. But she enjoyed it. My dad and I teased her to no end about that awful thing. But she was always so good humored about it.”
She smiled warmly. “They sound lovely.”
“Yeah, they were great.” He crouched to check the potatoes baking in the oven. He was unable to concentrate on anything, all too aware of her edging ever closer to The Wall.
He wondered what she would make of it. He wished that he’d removed some of the pictures already. But he wasn’t ready yet. He didn’t know if he would ever be ready.
She was bent over the side table next to the front door now where he usually left his keys and wallet. He winced when he belatedly recalled that—after rummaging through the table’s junk drawer for batteries earlier—he had left his purple heart, a few marksmanship awards, and his expert rifleman medal carelessly strewn across the table’s surface. He had been so distracted, he’d forgotten to sweep them back into the drawer.