Free Brush of Shade by Jan Harman

ego
needed a reality check? Obviously I was still suffering from an overload of
stress hormones. Either that or I was turning into a silly heroine from an 18 th Century romance novel. Get a grip. Focus on the ground. Forget his firm, strong
body, the soothing vibes, and his icy . . .  I refused to allow myself to
consider the qualities of his disconcerting eyes. I had the unsettling feeling
that he could stare his way into my thoughts or my soul. My fingers brushed
against the soft nap of his shirt. He made flannel sexy.
    “How about I
start?” he said, breaking the silence. “I’m sorry for intruding on your date. I
didn’t mean to overstep.”
    “Yes, you did.”
    “Cassidy’s
attitudes bother me. Chalk it up to ancient history, a family thing.”
    “The feelings
seemed mutual.”
    “Fine by me. I like knowing where I stand. Trust me, neither of us will lose any sleep over it. All I ask is
that you keep an open mind as things unfold.”
    Not
understanding the sudden tension in his voice, I squinted up at him, trying to
read his expression obscured by the shadows. “I don’t want to be caught in the
middle of something.”
    “I figured
Cassidy couldn’t resist showing off, so I checked out his favorite racing spot.
I didn’t think. After the other day in my truck, I felt responsible for you.”
    “You’re not in
charge of my life.”
    “I get that
here,” he said, tapping his forehead. “It’s just that you’re delicate.”
    I turned aside,
grinding my crutch into the ground. Don’t cry until you close the door in his
movie-star, perfect face.
    “Olivia, please. Livi ,” he said, shortening my name.
    It was difficult
to ignore how beautiful my name sounded as it rolled off his tongue. While I
wavered between staying just to hear it again, he stepped forward, blocking my
path to the porch.
    “Hang on, don’t
be mad.” He rubbed his temple. “I’m making a mess of this. I don’t mean you’re
delicate physically.”
    “Great, so I’m
crazy. Thanks. That makes me feel empowered. Go home, Shade.”
     “Don’t say
that,” he said in a clipped tone.
    I sighed. “You’re
not making sense.”
    “Do you want an
explanation?”
    Again with the
tension in his voice that made no sense. He’d taken several steps towards the
road. Sideways to me now he paused, staring straight ahead, trying to avoid
upsetting the broken girl. At least delicate had a gentler connotation than
crazy.
    “That’ll do,” he
said at long last under his breath, taking my silence for an answer.
    Still waiting
for him to say something that made sense, I crossed my arms. “That was your cue
to fill the silence.”
    His lips
twitched, but when he spoke his tone was serious. “The crutch is a constant
reminder of your current difficulties, an embarrassment, and even a symbol of
weakness. Once its purpose is done the tool will be discarded. The world will
think the frail girl beneath the surface is healed. They’ll be wrong because
your mind, like your winter coat, is stuffed full of insulation. This mental
buffer is just another crutch, one stitched out of your profound sadness. It
keeps the cold in. It allows you to go through your days stifling who you were
and who you were becoming under those bulky layers. You just do or say whatever
to get through the moment.”
     “I don’t.” Liar. I’d just broken my first date rule by staying in
the car because going along was easier and in the end nothing mattered. He just
didn’t know that yet. I checked the time on my watch and asked, “Should I be
expecting a bill in the morning?”
    “You’re the one
who wanted to know why I stepped in. It’s not my fault if you don’t like what
you hear. Take my advice, rip out the insulation. Put your head up. Face your
life.”
    “No oozing of
sympathy. How refreshingly honest.” I waved off his
advice and headed for the porch.
    Two long strides
and he invaded my space. “Don’t you have any fight left in you?”
    “I see,