Page 41 of The Bronze Garza

Too late. I pad back to the kitchen and take up residence on one of the stools at the island. “My ribs took several weeks to heal. So did my fractured arm and broken toe. But...” I rub two fingers under my chin, along the tender raised flesh. “I think this scar is going to be permanent. I guess I should be thankful it’s under my chin and not somewhere more prominent.”

“Good,” is all he says, taking a red sweet pepper to the cutting board.

I prop my elbows on the counter and rest my chin in my hands. “Why don’t you pity me?”

His gaze flicks up to meet mine, brief and blank. “Do you want my pity?”

“Well, no. But a little compassion at least.”

“Isn’t that the same thing?”

“Well, yes. But...”

Again, his gaze flicks up to mine. “But?”

I’ve got nothing. Do I want his pity? No. But hecouldbe a little less rude.

Though, now that I think about it, I’m starting to wonder if I even have a problem with that. His callousnessdoesmake me forget that I’m a victim. He talks to me, handles me, looks at me in the same way I believe he does with everyone. Like I’m normal and nothing traumatic happened to me. No walking on eggshells. No constant solicitousness. No pitiful glances.

Do I want him to start treating me any differently? I don’t know. I think I like that he doesn’t see me as broken, weak, or hapless. His rough, tactless handling of me actually gives me confidence around him, to rise and challenge him. If he’d been all tender-voiced and tiptoeing on eggshells, I’d have let him take me to the B&B to get away from him.

With a dawning sigh, I drop my hands and mumble, “Nothing.”

A thin whisper of something resembling a smile flits across his lips.Jerk.

“Why don’t you have a girlfriend?”

He raises a brow at me. “What makes you think I don’t?”

“Jo said you’ve never brought any women here before.”

“Who said I don’t have a bachelor pad somewhere?”

I cross my arms. “Well, why isn’t she vacationing with you?”

“Maybe because she’s not on vacation?”

Twisting my lips to the side, I shake my head. “Nah. I don’t think you have one.”

He shrugs as if to say it doesn’t matter what I think.

“A girlfriend would’ve loosened you up by now. Smoothed out your edges,” I say. “You’re too uptight. Too coarse and surly. A curmudgeon and a borderline misanthrope.”

A grunt leaves him as he turns to transfer the dirty utensils to the sink. “And you think agirlfriendwould change all that, huh?”

“The right one, yes.” I pause in thought. “Well, at least that’s what usually happened in the romance novels I used to read.”

“Good thing you stopped reading them, then.”

“But I’m right, though,” I state. “There’s no potential ‘Mrs. Garza’.”

As he gets out a head of romaine lettuce and some spinach from the fridge, he asks, “Why’s that information so important to you?”

“It isn’t,” I say quickly, defensively, feeling my neck heat. I’m fishing and I don’t know why. What do I care if he’s single or not? “I just feel sorry for you is all.”

This time he chuckles, and warmth blooms in my chest because it feels like I’ve just accomplished something huge. I get the feeling this man doesn’t laugh very often.

I slide off the barstool and stretch my arms over my head. “Can you make me a garden salad, please? I like it with—”