Sledgehammer (Hard to Love 2)

“Jeez, Vaughn. Stay on your side, will you. I’m not a pregnancy pillow. Hug yourself if you’re lonely.”

His chuckle is deep and dark and gives me dirty thoughts. For a moment I wonder what it would feel like if he–– “We need to be close to transfer body heat,” he says.

Before he got back into our makeshift bed, he threw another log on the fire, turning the room into a sauna. Not to mention what his proximity is doing to me. Time for an exaggerated eye roll. “Did that bullshit line work for you in high school?”

“Umm, no.”

The strange inflection in his voice piques my interest. I look over and find him watching me. “I’m getting a rapey, One Hour Photo vibe from you right now.”

“Why is everything a movie reference?” He’s propped up on an elbow again with genuine interest on his face.

“It’s my jam,” I reply, tucking my hands under my head.

“Why movies? Why not books, or music?”

The sound of his low, intimate voice does funny things to my nether region. I’m trying to fight this thing growing between us tooth and nail, but it’s getting harder and harder each day. Translation: I am screwed with a capital S. He can’t be sweet and smart, thoughtful and funny all wrapped up in a package that looks like that and not give a girl ideas. It’s like dangling chum in front of a shark. In case you missed it, he’s chum and I’m the shark in this scenario.

“I like those things too, but I love that you can tell an entire story with just one glance, and that it can mean something different to each person.”

“Hmm, good point.”

“And then there’s always the grand gesture, the moment of redemption. The boy gets the girl––or the boy. The crooked cop does the right thing and turns himself in. The hero gives his life for the drowning kid…the grand gesture hardly ever happens in real life.”

“You like it when the boy gets the girl?” he murmurs, his eyes taking in every salient point on my face one piece at a time.

My face registers one thing only––suspicion. He’s in a strange mood tonight. And try as I may, I can’t figure out where he’s going with this.

“He doesn’t always get the girl, Fancy. But I do love the grand gesture. Every epic love story has a grand gesture.”

The silence impels me to look over again. Brown eyes twinkling in the firelight, all the hard planes of his face outlined in gold. Ugh, somebody save me from myself.

“Still getting that One Hour Photo vibe from you.” So what do I get after comparing him to the creepy stalker Robin Williams played in that movie? I get an even bigger smile out of him. Men, explain them to me. “Are my insults ever going to score a hit?”

“No.”

“I didn’t think so.”

“But keep ‘em coming. I’m excited to hear what comes out of your mouth next.”

“Fancy?”

“Yeah?”

“Why do you live in this dump?”

Sighing, he parrots my pose and lies back with his hands tucked under his head. The sigh indicates this is a much more serious conversation than I’d intended.

“This was the house my grandparents lived in when my mom was a kid. She grew up here.”

“And?”

“And they were going to turn it into a commercial property so I asked Norma to give it to me instead. I’m fixing it up for my someday family.”

“Are you close to your mother?”

“She passed away when I was fifteen.” He turns and meets my eyes. “Ovarian cancer.”

Stop. Somebody make him stop. That hurts. Damn that hurts. It feels like I just got double barrel kicked in the sternum. My gaze shifts to the ceiling in fear I’ll lose it.

I’d assumed he’d led a charmed life. What a dumbass. I, better than anyone, should’ve known not to draw such conclusions, to not judge him based on appearance. Things are rarely what they seem. The ache fades into the background and a large dose of shame takes its place.

“I’m sorry. That must’ve been really hard for you.”

“It wasn’t easy.

“I’m not close to mine,” I blurt out. Again, my mouth doing it’s own thing. “I don’t even think of her as my mother. More like a distant relative I’m forced to tolerate every once in a while.”

“How come you’re not close?”

“It started when I was born. We had a falling out over a small discrepancy.” My voice is toneless, dispassionate. The benefit of a bad experience is that once it’s wrung out of you every drop of emotion, it’s done for good. “She was under the impression that babies care for themselves. Eileen was your quintessential party girl. Not much time for maternal bonding when she was juggling multiple boyfriends. When I was eight she met Dan and decided that raising his son and a daughter was way too much work so she left me with my grandparents.”