Her face falls and her eyes shutter closed, she’s expressionless now, sullen as she reaches for her top.

“I didn’t realize I was so offensive,” she mutters.  “I’m sorry.  I’ll just leave you alone out here.”

She stalks away and I can hear her heels clicking on the pier with every step she takes, as she gets further and further away.

I feel awful for crushing her.  And I did crush her.  I saw it in her eyes before she guarded them.  I saw it in the way her shoulders fell, the way she sucked in her breath at my words.

I don’t know why I said what I said… except that I want her to find her dignity.

I know, somehow I know, that this isn’t really Nora.  Nora Greene doesn’t act like this.  So why she feels the need to act like a bar whore around me, I have no f**king clue.

All it’s doing is making it harder on me.  Harder to not take her up on her proposition.

With a start, I realize that’s exactly what she’s doing.  She’s making it harder on me to say no.

With a groan, I roll my eyes and cast my line again.

Fuck.  Like I need that.  I’m having a hard enough time saying no already.

***

Nora

Fuck him.

I don’t need this shit.

I storm into my room and yank a t-shirt and yoga capris out of a drawer.  I’m here to help him, out of the goodness of my heart, and he wants to treat me like a common whore?

What the hell?

What is wrong with him that he won’t just take me up on my offer?  Jesus.

And there was no need to be so mean.

His words made my hands shake… I’m not a whore.

I pull on my clothes and twist my hair into a bun at my neck.  I’m just starting to throw my clothes back into my bag, when I catch sight of a picture sitting next of the lamp… an old photograph, framed in sea shells.

It’s Brand, Gabe and Jacey.

Brand and Gabe must be around twelve, which means Jacey is just a bit younger.  They’re tanned and smiling and lying on the beach with popsicles.  Their mouths are red and Jacey’s got her arms wrapped around Brand’s waist.

Something about that picture gives me pause, and makes me stop packing.

Being only twelve, I’m sure Brand hadn’t even begun to notice Jacey yet… she was a couple of years younger after all.  But it does show that even way back then, Jacey was clinging to Brand.

It started so long ago.

It makes me seethe, because I don’t know Jacey, but I know girls like her.

She started clinging to him, making him feel important to her, reeling him in, going to him for advice, growing closer and closer.  She kept him on the hook just in case she ever decided she wanted him… but then she never did, because he was like her ‘brother.’

And Brand never saw it coming, because he’s such a good guy. He never knew he was getting played, getting strung along.

Then when he bared his heart to her, she probably crushed it.

I stare at the picture, at the blonde little girl with her arms wrapped around Brand, and I can’t help but hate just a bit.  She hurt him, and now he’s distant from every other woman as he protects himself from that happening again.

He hasn’t said, but I know that’s what he’s doing.

All because of her.

In the picture, he’s young and innocent.  He’s laughing at Gabe, still oblivious to the hooks Jacey would cast into him a bit later.

It twinges at my heart and I stop packing.

Because it reminds me that he’s so f**king good.  As I look at his boyish face in the picture, all I can see is teenage Brand, the boy who picked me out of the dirt and cleaned me off, all at the risk of getting in trouble.  The sexy boy who grew into a sexy man, a man who fought hard for his country, a man who loved a woman he couldn’t have.

Even though he’s hardened and cautious now, he’s still good.

That’s why he doesn’t want me throwing myself at him, lowering myself to begging.  He doesn’t want it that way.

It’s been so long since I’ve been around a good man, I didn’t even think about that.

I put my clothes away.

I head out to the living room and fold the towels in the basket, all the while watching out the window.

Brand grows sweaty and takes off his shirt.

The sun beats down on his shoulders and back, tanning him even more.  I literally ache to go out there and smooth sunscreen over his shoulders, running my hands over that rippled muscle, running my fingers over those f**king words.

I stand on a wall to protect what is mine.

I swallow hard.

The sun glints on his honey-blond hair, and a sheen of sweat appears on his forehead.  He stretches, and leans back once again, his muscles flexing with every movement.

His pole twitches, and he grabs it, reeling it in.

He pops a fish off the end of the line, then drops it into a bucket next to him.

I smile because he looks so satisfied.

He stretches one more time, then slowly climbs to his feet, careful not to twist his injured knee.

He grabs the bucket and dumps it out into the lake… and I see two other fish fall back into the water and I’m shocked. Why would he sit out there in the sun if he was only going to throw the fish back?

I ask him as much when he finally emerges in the house a few minutes later.

He glances up at me, his hair damp from the heat. 

“Because I can clean them, but I doubt you know how to cook them.  So why should I kill them for no reason?”

He limps past me, headed for the shower, and his simple answer warms my belly.

He didn’t want to kill helpless creatures for no reason.

This big, strong solider who had to kill people in combat has a kind enough heart that he doesn’t want to kill fish if he doesn’t plan on eating them.

If possible, I’m even more infatuated with this man.

Chapter Eight

Nora

I manage to make scrambled eggs for the third night without burning them.  I feel like I’ve conquered the world once again as I slide the steaming mass onto a plate and push it toward Brand across the kitchen table.

He purposely keeps his eyes firmly planted everywhere but the front of my shirt.

I feel like a wanton hussy as I remember how until today, every time I leaned forward, I made sure to push my boobs out, making my ni**les strain even further against my shirt.  .

Ugh.

He must think I’m such a slut, which is exactly the opposite of what I am, or what I want him to think.