Swear (Landry Family 4)

I want to say no because that’s too personal. My dad is my territory and it feels risky to let Ford bleed into that. Still, I know Dad likes him and seeing Ford would make his day. “He’d probably love that.”

“So would I.”

I lift the paint roller again and try to concentrate on covering the wall with the mint green Vi and I picked out.

“Need help?” he asks.

Looking over my shoulder, I see him slipping off his jacket. I nearly choke when the hem of his shirt lifts when he tosses his jacket on a nearby box and I see the edge of the ridge going from his hip to his groin.

“Not really,” I say, trying to force myself to look away.

He doesn’t seem to notice anything other than my stubbornness to let him lend a hand. He flashes me a disapproving look.

I continue stroking the brush up and down the wall.

“Talk to me, Ellie.”

“About what?” I ask through parched lips.

“Anything,” he says. “I just want to hear your voice.”

“What if I say I hate you?”

“No one hates me more than I hate myself.”

“I might be close. Besides,” I add, “I think you’re way too self-centered to hate yourself.”

“That’s about the third time you’ve called me self-centered.”

“Yeah. So? What’s your point?”

His jaw sets firmly in place. “I’ll admit I’ve done some hedonistic things, namely to you, but I’m not some asshole on an ego trip, El.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

Turning away from him, I go back to painting. I’m a half a stroke up the wall when he plucks the brush out of my hand.

“Hey!” I object as he drops it into the pan with a thud. “What do you think you’re doing?”

He steps towards me. I take one back.

He’s eyeing me like I’m an opponent on the other end of a table, one that he’s ready, willing, and able to bend to his will.

Throwing my shoulders back, I look him straight-away. “I asked you a question.”

He moves towards me again, but I can’t go back any farther without touching the freshly-painted wall.

“I’m sorry.”

They’re both the simplest and hardest words in the English language and can be the sweetest to hear or the most bitter. Watching them topple out of mouth with that fire in his eyes is a mixed bag.

“I bet you are.” There’s a swagger to my words, a hint of moxie that I don’t try to hide. “You’re not ignorant. You’re just a typical man.”

His chuckle dances over my skin as the blues of his eyes darken. “What do you want me to say? That I fucked up?” He stretches his arms out to both sides. “Is that what you want to hear?”

“No,” I bark back. “It’s not. I don’t want to hear anything from you. I don’t even want you here!”

My throat burns as he steps closer, my eyes widening in anticipation of his next move. The look on his face is unreadable. All I know for sure is that a conversation I’ve been curious about for years now is about to come to a head.