Free Close Enough to Touch by Victoria Dahl

turned the shower up to scalding, then stood there with his
head down for as long as he could take it.
    Half an hour later, he knocked on Grace’s door. A tiny glimmer
of light caught his eye, and he noticed that she’d scraped the paint off the
peephole in the door. The light darkened. He smiled and mouthed “Good
morning.”
    She yanked the door open a moment later. “Hey,” she said, her
voice still sleepy.
    Cole took her in for a moment. She was already wearing jeans
and a T-shirt. Her feet were bare again, blue toenails in such stark contrast to
her white toes. His eyes wandered back up. The T-shirt was rumpled and worn. And
intriguingly tight.
    Cole cleared his throat. She was always smaller than he
expected. Petite and almost delicate-looking. Small breasts. Hips that—
    She crossed her arms as if she were cold. “Dude. Hello.”
    “Have you had breakfast?” He looked past her toward the
kitchen. No coffeepot. Nothing but a jar of peanut butter with a plastic knife
sticking out of it.
    “Yes.”
    Wow. These L.A. girls really didn’t eat much. No wonder she
looked so small. He could never understand how women starved themselves. He
couldn’t go more than a few hours without grabbing at least a snack.
    “What about coffee?” He seemed to remember plenty of coffee
drinking in Hollywood. And smoking. And there were always calories available for
martinis.
    “Um. Not yet.”
    “I’ve got a pot on now. Want some?”
    Oh, he had her number. She didn’t want to say yes. Her mouth,
so wide and full and pink, had pressed itself into a flat line. But her eyes
were sharp with interest. He had something she wanted, and the price for that
was time.
    Her nose twitched, and Cole realized the scent was drifting
into the hallway. He smiled. She scowled. Her blue-painted toes curled.
    “I’ll pour you a cup,” he said, then turned his back and walked
into his apartment, feeling a little like he was trying to lure a feral cat. She
snuck in silently a few seconds later. He vowed not to make any sudden
moves.
    “Want some bacon? I’m making it for myself, may as well make
some for you.”
    “Sure,” she said warily.
    He got breakfast started, throwing in some eggs for her, too,
then handed her a cup of coffee. “I hear you were a makeup artist in L.A.”
    “Yeah?” She hunched over the cup, and Cole reached for the
thermostat again. “Who’d you hear that from?”
    “Jenny.” He figured it wouldn’t hurt to be extra sure, so he
asked again. “So, what are you doing out here?”
    “Seeing the world.”
    “Yeah? And you decided to start with the middle of
Wyoming?”
    She glared at him through the steam that rose from her cup.
Today, her makeup was perfect. Apparently, she’d already been up and put it on.
A secret vanity. Interesting.
    “What kind of work did you do in L.A.?”
    “The makeup kind.”
    When she didn’t elaborate, Cole just looked at her until she
slumped a little and conceded. As if telling him about herself was a defeat. “I
worked in fashion a little, but mostly in the movies.”
    Ah, shit. It didn’t matter, he told himself. It wasn’t like the
movie industry had screwed him over and broken his heart. It had been a woman
and his own poor judgment. And if Grace’s toughness and edginess reminded him a
little of his ex-lover—not to mention a few other women he’d met in L.A.—then he
just needed to be aware. Aware that he shouldn’t trust people who hadn’t earned
it. Aware that he shouldn’t let himself be used. Aware that sometimes strength
meant hardness, and coolness was cruelty.
    But right at this moment, Grace didn’t look hard or cool. Her
brown eyes seemed lighter against the black liner this morning, but still
fascinatingly deep. Unknowable. Which only made him more determined to know her.
“Why’d you leave L.A.?” he pressed.
    She shrugged one shoulder as if it didn’t matter to her in the
least. “I got fired. I decided to move on.”
    “Fired? What’d you