Page 42 of Written with Regret (The Regret Duet 1)
He looked thoroughly confused, but when I turned my attention back on Caven, a smile was twitching the corner of his lips.
A smile.
A smile couldn’t be bad, right?
Dear God, please don’t let his smile be a bad thing.
I kicked the trash out of the way as best I could and then plastered on a grin that I hoped didn’t look nearly as nervous as I felt. “Come on in, Caven.”
He stood, patiently waiting until Jerry hobbled down my three brick steps. They exchanged macho chin jerks, and Jerry grumbled something under his breath as he passed that made Caven chuckle.
Oh, sweet baby Jesus, a chuckle had to be good news. No one chuckled right before ruining another person’s hopes and dreams, no matter how funny a crochety old man may be.
I swallowed hard, rolling my thumb and my forefinger together as he made his way up the steps. He stopped directly in front of me, so close that I could smell his cool and crisp cologne, the trail becoming woodsy and warm, purely masculine, just like everything else about Caven Hunt.
And then that magnificent lip twitch of his made an encore. “You still making up for our carbon footprint the other night?”
“I looked it up. Your SUV gets thirteen miles to the gallon. It may take a while.”
He grinned.
I backed up, allowing him space to enter, tripping over an empty milk jug in the process.
“Shit,” I cried as I fell backward.
With the speed of a cheetah—or a father with experience in dealing with a clumsy, accident-prone Banks girl—he caught my arm. My breath hitched and I felt every one of his fingertips branding the inside of my bicep.
Dazed and a tad bit hypnotized, I peered up at him.
God, how I’d dreamed about him over the years.
In those dreams, he’d never been scowling at me or shouting like he had in his backyard. Nor had he been riddled with guilt like he had been at the diner. No. In my dreams, Caven looked at me with tenderness and longing. This was neither of those, but I’d happily accept the gentle amusement he was currently aiming my way.
“Who knew recycling could be so dangerous?” he teased.
Like, actually teased, as though I weren’t his archnemesis.
And because I was so lost in his dreamy, blue stare, I replied, “Some people believe recycling itself is actually a dangerous process that produces harmful byproducts and emissions.”
His brows furrowed. “Interesting.” Though he said it in a way that said it was not interesting in the least.
I couldn’t blame him. It was a random fact I’d once heard. Why it had come to me in that moment, I would never know. But at least words had come out and I didn’t look like a total imbecile.
“Is that paint in your hair?” he asked.
Strike that. I looked like a total imbecile in dirty overalls with damn paint in my hair.
Fan-fucking-tastic.
“Uh…yeah,” I replied, raking my fingers through the top of my hair, like that was going to help. “Purple is my color.” As I attempted to right myself, the back of my hand grazed the front of his shirt, leaving a lovely streak across the front of his gray shirt. “Oh my God,” I breathed in horror. In the recesses of my mind, I knew it was oil paint—not, say, a dribble of ketchup I could just wipe away. But something in the embarrassment section of my brain told me to try anyway. “Shit. I am so sorry.” Using my clean hand, I gave it a swipe, producing a yellow streak out of nowhere. “Shit,” I cried, continuing my attempt to clean his uncleanable shirt with the heels of my palms.
It was ridiculous and I probably looked like a cat digging in the sand, but Caven just stood there, his chin to his chest watching me. That is until a red streak joined its primary and secondary friends.
“Holy shit,” I gasped. “Where is all this paint coming from?”
And because my brain clearly could not accept that my hands had somehow magically transformed into paint brushes hell-bent on using Caven as a canvas… I. Just. Kept. Wiping.
“Hadley, stop,” he said, gently taking my wrists. “It’s okay. Really.”
I could only imagine how red my face was because it felt like my cheeks had caught fire. “Oh my God. I’m so sorry. I’ll buy you a new shirt. I swear. Just tell me how much it cost and I’ll cut you a check.” I paused my hysteria long enough to realize that no one had checks anymore, much less ones they “cut” like an old-school bookie. “That was a lie. I don’t have a check. Do you by chance have Paypal?”
And that was when it happened. Caven Hunt didn’t just grin at me.
Or twitch his lips.
Or even chuckle.
He laughed, deep and throaty.
Rich and brilliant.
