Busted.
“Uh, yes, simple. I’m listening.”
With a chuckle, he nodded. “What I mean is, you don’t need to put on any fancy airs with us. If you’re a fucking mess right now because you’re figuring your shit out, then just be a mess. Fuck up, get mad, cry, bring a shitty dessert to dinner.”
Her face heated, and she huffed out a small laugh. “Well, that last one is easy.”
He reached out and swiped a finger across her cheek. Soot? Maybe flour?
“I like this chaotic version of you much better than the polished one.”
Flaying herself open and leaving her soul vulnerable to him went against everything she’d had drilled into her head for the past decade. Spinning the public’s perception to meet her needs became second nature. More than that, it became a vital means of survival as she’d careened farther and farther down a dark path of self-destruction. No one knew the real her, and that’d been both by choice and necessity. Only she’d done such a tremendous job of burying herself, uncovering her real personality was proving harder than she’d thought.
Was that is? Was fear keeping her from being herself?
Yes, partly.
Fear of rejection.
Fear of not fitting in.
Fear of failure.
Fear of never overcoming the label of unstable Hollywood actress and junkie.
So many fears.
If Keith knew who the mess he claimed to like really was, would he take back his words? Would he view her as the rest of the world? A bitch, a slut, a high-maintenance addict?
Her eyes fell closed.
That isn’t you.
Okay, she’d play things his way for a while. Lower her guard. Relax. Be herself. Or try to, anyway.
And if it all blew up in her face, she knew exactly how to handle it. Fall back on years of training and hide her true feelings. Act her ass off.
“Really?” she whispered as her face heated.
“Really,” he said. “So, don’t be afraid to let us see you, okay?”
She watched his face as he spoke and nothing about him had her thinking he was putting her on or making a joke. No, he meant it. He’d rather see her fall apart than pretend she was perfect. Butterflies fluttered low in her stomach. What a nice feeling. To know someone just wanted to see…her. In all her messy glory.
“Thank you,” she whispered. Hopefully the simple phrase conveyed the warmth and acceptance his words filled her with.
He winked. “Now, I’m already hours late for work. What do you say I have JP take over my appointments, and I show you how to make a mean apple pie? Mickie?” He used her nickname for the first time. It sounded nice coming from his gruff voice.
“Uh, sorry, zoned out for a second.” She almost told him not to skip work on her behalf, but she bit off the words. For some reason, she had a feeling not many people got to see this softer, more relaxed side of Keith, and curiosity won out over politeness. The idea of being folded into this big crazy family, even as a friendly neighbor, was too tempting to resist. “Um, there’s already been one fire in this kitchen today. Maybe we should leave it at that.”
He snorted. “Tease all you want, but no matter what I make, it can’t be worse than this.” He lifted the now-cool pan from the sink. Inside were the remnants of charred apples, but her attention focused on where his bicep flexed, straining the hem of his sleeve. “Besides, I have mad kitchen skills.”
“Uh…” She fanned her face. Geez, the kitchen was still too warm from the fire. “You have a point. So, what do we do first, chef?”
“That would be the crust.” He shoved aside floury cookbook and went to work.
Mickie’s could barely keep her jaw from hitting the floor as she watched him deftly mixing ingredients. “Where did you learn how to do this?”
He smiled as he worked the dough with his fingers. “My mom. She was a fantastic cook. And as the oldest, I was always asked to help her out in the kitchen. Picked up a few skills.”
“Well, I’ve gotta say, this is a good trick to have up your sleeve when trying to impress a girl.”
He arched an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? This impressing you?”
Was it her imagination or had his voice deepened to a husky rasp?
“Well, yeah,” she said with a laugh, as she tried to get sex off her mind and keep this interaction friendly. “It’s super impressive. So do you still cook with your mom?”
His face hardened. “Uh, no. She died when I was twenty-two. Ruptured brain aneurysm.”
Her heart sank for all of the Bensons. “Oh, I’m so sorry.” Clearing her throat, she said. “Seventeen for me. Cancer.”
His agile fingers stopped working the dough. Their gazes collided and something passed between them. What a sad thing to have in common, but it seemed to form a small bond of understanding. Tragedy had a way of bringing survivors together.