Caroline grinned, agreed with him, tapped and tapped, then looked up. “I like to decorate for the holidays.”
“Do you?” he asked. “I didn’t see anything for Valentine’s Day. No wreath or anything on the door.”
She paused, and Dawson wished he could get inside her head and see all the layers there. He couldn’t, so he waited for her to say something as the big barn he’d booked reservations with tonight came into view.
“You’re right,” she said. “Traditionally, I’ve hated Valentine’s Day. Nothing good for me to celebrate.” She wrapped her arms around herself in a crossed-arm hug. Pure vulnerability streamed from her, and Dawson wanted to wash it all away. Make everything better.
“You don’t have to tell me right now,” he said. “But your ex-husband…did he abuse you?”
“In so many ways, yes,” she said. “Physically, no. But it’s the mental and emotional wounds that take the longest to heal.” She drew in a deep breath through her nose. “And no one sees those.”
“Don’t they?”
She swung her attention to him, those gorgeous curls bobbing a little with the moment. “They do?”
“We see how people act,” he said quietly. “And if there’s anything I learned in therapy, it’s that nearly all decisions we make and the subsequent actions we take stem from our experiences.” He made the turn into the big parking lot and followed the directions of the man with the light-up sticks, motioning for him to come forward and turn down an aisle on the right.
“So we see the wounds; we just don’t categorize them that way. We think a person likes to make lists, or they enjoy getting up at five a.m. to run, or they like having rules for their life. But those, darlin’, are the scars of our emotional and mental wounds. They’re visible, if you know how to look.”
“I—” She clamped her mouth shut, and Dawson pulled into the appointed space. He quickly turned off the ignition and grabbed his wallet before vaulting from the truck to go help her down in that sexy, vibrant, red-flower dress.
When he opened the door, he found her brushing at her eyes, and panic like Dawson had never felt before flooded him. “Dust and shadows,” he swore as he crowded into her personal space. “I said something stupid, didn’t I? I’m sorry.”
She shook her head and sniffled. “No, you said something perfect.” She gave him a kind, if a little watery, grin. “I’ve never thought of my emotional wounds being so visible.”
“You follow the rules to a T,” he said gently. “It’s nota bad thing, but it also tells me that, at some point, you’ve been punished for coloring outside the lines.” He put one hand on her knee and reached up with the other to cradle her face. “You can color anywhere you want with me, darlin’.”
Her eyes drifted closed as she pressed into his touch. “Thank you, Dawson.”
“Have I mentioned how gorgeous you are tonight? Did I say hello? Or did I go straight to kissing again?”
She grinned at him, bringing back the vibrancy that fueled his spirit. “You said hello, baby. Howdy, actually.” She dropped to the ground and pulled her skirt with her.
Dawson linked his arm through hers. “Okay, now this just looks like a regular barn, but I’ll have you know it’s one of the biggest reasons I love Texas.”
“You do love Texas,” she said with a giggle.
“Don’t act like you don’t,” he said.
“I’m still getting used to the Panhandle, though.”
“Fair enough,” he said. “Now, if you don’t like this place, I’d appreciate it if you kept it to yourself until after the date. Then you can tell me never to bring you here again, and I’ll have to decide if that’s a deal-breaker for us.”
The sidewalks leading to the big barn door—which was painted a bright white with a huge red heart in the middle of it—were lit by soft-glow lanterns hovering a foot or so off the ground. Everything had beencast in the color of romance, and Dawson felt it starting to hum through his veins.
“So you have deal-breakers for relationships,” she said.
“Sure,” he said. “The first one was that kissing my girlfriend can’t be like kissing my sister, and you passed that one just fine.” He cleared his throat. “Still do.”
The door loomed closer, and Caroline’s heels clicked with every step she took. He reached the door and opened it, letting out a wave of heat, but not much noise. It would get loud later, once the band started playing, but for now, Dawson’s anxiety over tonight’s festivities stayed dormant.
“Rhinehart,” he said to the woman standing behind a podium that had been made from reclaimed barn wood. It too bore the romantic lights, and flowers existed everywhere. Wreaths, and vases, and more horizontal displays, like the kind Dawson’s momma put out on the table for Thanksgiving.
“Dawson,” Caroline gushed. “Look at these flowers.”
“All of our floral arrangements are for sale tonight,” the hostess said. “Your table is number thirty-one, Mister Rhinehart, and you can go back any time you want.”
“Thank you.” He took the ticket from her and went with Caroline to look at all the arrangements.