My tone grew defensive. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“I just figure most interior designers would relish the chance to decorate a blank canvas like this.” His eyes narrowed fractionally. “But I guess it makes sense. Plumbers always have the leakiest pipes. Mechanics always need a new muffler. Shrinks are always in need of the most therapy.”
“I’m too sleep deprived to listen to this,” I announced, ripping my gaze from his and stomping into the next room. Though, truth be told, it was rather hard to stomp, given that I was barefoot, half-tripping over the too-long sweatpants with every step. “Besides, I thought you were here to look for intruders, not psychoanalyze me.”
In grudging silence, he shadowed me through the rest of the rooms on the first floor. At each threshold, he made a low grunt, as if the sight of yet another vacant room was confirming some deeply-rooted suspicion. I grew more and more annoyed by these small sounds of self-affirmation as we moved up the grand staircase to the second floor, the steps creaking beneath our feet as we climbed.
“I am planning on decorating. Eventually.” I clenched my hands into fists as we peered into the sun-drenched room I’d always envisioned as my library-slash-home-office. All it needed was a coat of paint… and custom built-in bookshelves with rolling ladders… a plush nook for reading by the picture window… a few thousand dollars worth of furnishings… plus a few hundred books… oh, and a rug… and…
“Uh huh,” Graham murmured doubtfully.
“I am! I just haven’t had the time. I’ve been a bit busy running a small business.”
“Uh huh.”
“Stop with theuh huh’s and say whatever you’re clearly so desperate to say.”
His head swung around and he pinned me with that intense stare. “Fine. You and Flo have time to go sit in vats of mud with cucumber slices on your eyelids four, maybe five times a year. I’m pretty sure you have the time to decorate.”
Rude!
(Though, it must be said, accurate.)
My chin jerked higher. “You don’t know anything about me or how I spend my free time.”
“Not for lack of trying.”
“What?”
He ignored my frazzled exclamation. His eyes narrowed a shade, as though if he looked at me hard enough he might see through my bullshit. “I think you’re scared to decorate this place.”
I laughed; I couldn’t help myself. It was ridiculous!Hewas ridiculous. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me. I think you’re scared — scared to put down roots, scared to settle in. Scared to call something permanent. Scared to let anyone know you, besides maybe Florence, and that’s only because she met you long before you threw up those sky-high walls you keep around yourself for protection.”
His words clawed their way into my brain, tearing at me from the inside out. I told myself he was wrong about me, that he spoke lies, but deep down I knew better. Much as I might like to pretend this place was my home, there was a part of me that would always be that girl in the trailer, looking for escape routes, ready to pack up her whole life at a moment’s notice and move on.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I lied, heart thudding twice its normal speed. My hands clenched into fists at my sides to keep myself from flying apart in a million directions. “You’re way off base.”
“Am I?”
“Lightyears.”
He took a step closer, forcing me to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. “Then name one person besides Florence you’ve allowed to know you since you moved back to town. The real you, not the sunny facade you let everyone else see. Not the bullshit customer service smile. Not the designer outfits. Not the poised, perfectly coordinated shopkeeper.You.”
“Desmond,” I said immediately.
“Doesn’t count. He and Flo are a package deal. You only let him close because he’s fused to her side eighty-six percent of the time.” He paused. “As for everyone else? You keep them at arm’s length.”
My heart was jackhammering my ribs. “That’s not true. I’m a nice person. Plenty of people know me. Not only know me, they like me!”
At least, they seemed to. I had a growing base of loyal customers. I was a good neighbor. (Admittedly, my exterior fall facade could use some work, but I never threw loud parties or left my trash cans on the street after pickup.) I was a goddamned national treasure, damn it! Or, if not a national treasure, at least… a well-liked local trinket. He was making me sound like some antisocial old hag who lived in the swamps, unable to mingle with the ordinary townsfolk.
“People do like you, Gwen,” Graham murmured. “They’d even love you, if you let them. But you don’t.”
“And justwhat,” I said, ice dripping from my every word, “Is that supposed to mean?”
He ran a hand through his hair, looking suddenly frustrated. “Every guy you’ve brought around these past few years has stared at you with the same half-whipped, puppy dog expression, wondering how the hell he’s going to get through. How he’s going to make you let down your guard long enough to love you. And every one of them has failed.”