crossed his face.
“I hurt your feelings,” Grace said, stunned.
For a moment, he looked stunned, too. Then a shield came down over his eyes, making them seem a darker shade of emerald than they had before. A little smile tickled the sinfully sensuous curve of his mouth. His expression was not exactly amusement, and not exactly scorn. More a kind of deprecating self-knowledge.
“Gracie, honey—”
Gracie wasn’t bad enough? Now he had to add honey to it?
“I don’t have feelings for you to hurt.”
That was what he wanted for her to believe. And she saw it was entirely possible that he believed that himself. But she didn’t.
And suddenly Rory Adams was more dangerous to her than ever. Because he wasn’t just handsome. He wasn’t just the first man she’d ever had a crush on. He wasn’t just her brother’s best friend and fellow adventurer.
Because just before that shield had come down in his eyes, Grace was sure she had caught a glimpse of someone who had lost their way, someone who relied totally on himself, someone lonely beyond what she had ever known that word to mean.
“There was a complication,” she admitted slowly. “That’s why I agreed to have her provide ponies for the party.”
“The thing about a woman like Serenity?”
She hated the way he said that, as if he knew way too much about women in general and women like Serenity in particular.
“What kind of woman is Serenity?” Grace demanded sweetly, though the kind of woman Serenity was was terribly obvious, even to Grace. Serenity was one of those women who had lived hard and lived wild, and it was all catching up with her.
The line around Rory’s lip tightened as he decided what to say. “She’s the kind who used to own the party,” he said. “And then the party owned her.”
Grace suspected that he had sugarcoated what he really wanted to say, but what he had said was harsh enough, and it was said with such a lack of sympathy that the moment of unwanted—and weakening sympathy she had felt for him—evaporated.
Thank God.
“And what about women like Serenity?” she said, yanking her strap up one more time.
“There’s always a complication.”
Then he strode over to the horse trailer, and Gracie could not help but notice he was all soldier now, totally focused, totally take-charge and totally no-nonsense.
It felt like a terrible weakness on her part that she was somewhat relieved both by the fact his armor was back up and by the fact he was taking charge.
So she had to say, “I can handle this.”
He snorted, glanced meaningfully at the pony in the wading pool, trampling what was left of the soggy Happy Birthday banner, and said, “Sure you can, Gracie.”
I hurt your feelings. Really, Gracie Day couldn’t have picked a more annoying thing to say to him.
Feelings? Weren’t those the pesky things that he’d managed to outrun his whole life? Starting with a less than stellar childhood—no ponies at birthday parties, for sure—and ending up in a profession where to feel anything too long or too intensely would have meant he couldn’t do his job.
No, Rory Adams was a man ideally suited for soldiering. His early life had prepared him for hardship. The little bit of idealism that he had managed to escape his childhood with had soon departed, too.
So, Rory Adams had hated the look in Gracie’s eyes, just now, doe-soft, as if she could see right through him.
To some secret longing.
To have what she and Graham had had. Their house the one on the block that everyone flocked to, and not just because there were always freshly baked chocolate chip cookies, either. There was something there. That house was full of laughter. And love. Parents who actually made rules and had dinner on the table at a certain time.
Rory remembered calling Graham once about a party. And Graham saying, “Nah, I’m going fishing with my dad.”
A family that enjoyed being together. That had been a novelty in Rory Adam’s world.
Is that what he’d wanted when he’d called her? Had it been about him and not about her—or his obligation to Graham—at all?
No, he reminded himself. He’d been relieved by her rejection.
Rory shrugged off the thoughts, annoyed with himself. He was not accustomed to questioning himself or his motives. Except for the event that haunted his dreams, he moved through life with the supreme confidence of the warrior he was. The qualities that had made him an exceptional warrior also made him good at business.
So it flustered him beyond reason that a single glance from her had shaken something deep, deep within him.
He drew in a long breath, steadying himself, clearing away distractions, focusing on what needed to be done.
Poking out from underneath the horse trailer, near the back bumper, was one very tiny, suede, purple cowboy boot, with a fake spur attached.
He nudged at the boot with his shoe and then a little harder when there was no response. The boot moved away.
Sighing, he bent down and tugged. And this time he met some real resistance.
He felt under the trailer, found the other boot and pulled. Out came long, naked legs, and then short denim shorts, frayed at the cuffs, and then a bare belly, and then a sequined pop top with fringes. And then the face of an angel—if it weren’t for the circles of black mascara under her eyes—and blond curls topped with a pink cowboy hat.
He studied her for a moment. Despite her prettiness, she was aging badly. He and Graham had partied—hard—with her and her rodeo crowd. They’d been a rowdy, rough bunch. It had been a brief interlude—a few crazy days before their unit had mustered out the very first time.
That made it eight years ago, about the same amount of time since he had seen Gracie in her braces.
But whereas Grace had come into herself, Serenity had deteriorated badly. She must have been in her twenties at that first encounter, which meant she was way too old now to be wearing short shorts and a pink cowboy hat. She was on the scary side of skinny, her hair had been bleached once too often, and she was definitely drunk.
Well, that part was the same.
“Leave me alone,” the black-eyed angel mumbled, swinging at air.
“Yes, leave her alone,” Gracie said. “Really, there’s nothing here I can’t handle.”
He ignored them both.
“Look, Rory, you just don’t understand the delicate nuances of this situation.”
“Uh-huh,” he said, but he was pretty sure he got the “delicate nuances”
