Barbed Wire Bandages, page 5
Before she could question it too deeply, he crossed his strong arms and nodded with a grin.
“Yeah. That sounds really good.”
“Good,” she echoed, genuinely surprised by his enthusiasm. “Well, I'm gonna go back up to the house.” She stuck a thumb over her shoulder as she backed away from Garrison's smile.
That smile could do dangerous things to a woman. Bridget didn't think she was that woman... but still. It unnerved her the way she could feel herself getting lost in that one look.
She didn't usually allow herself to 'crush' on the men in Till Park, even if they were just passing through. But although her brain said that plan was all good and well, her emotions and hormones were tripping over themselves in a rush to win back that laugh.
“Let me know if you need anything,” she said, walking toward the house.
With every step, she could feel his eyes burning into her back. His deep voice filtered through the air and she wasn't sure if she was meant to hear his parting words. They were spoken so softly, offered up in a brief glimpse at the shy boy he'd once been.
“I will.”
CHAPTER FIVE
With a smile he couldn't contain, no matter how hard he tried, Garrison knocked on Bridget's door. While he stood at her threshold, looking calm and confident, his brain was at war with itself. His logical thoughts told him that the attraction he'd felt toward Bridget in the early morning hours was a bad thing. Very. Fucking. Bad. Bridget Warner was off limits, always had been. Always would be.
The less logical side of him was completely enamored by the thought of her newfound kindness. He ran a nervous hand through his hair and tugged on the edges of his wrinkled and stained t-shirt as he waited for her to answer the door.
When he knocked again, a chorus of barking and howling rang out from inside, followed by a barrage of light footsteps.
“Just a minute!” Bridget yelled from inside.
He took a tentative step away from the door as the barking intensified. The white curtains in the window shimmied and twirled as flashes of ears, eyes, and paws sped by. He took another step back, just to be safe.
The last thing he wanted was to get his throat ripped out by an over-protective guard dog. As he looked around the dark-stained cedar porch, he silenced everything in his mind – his nerves and his excitement – and took a moment to appreciate the simple but beautiful craftsmanship. The porch hadn't been there when the bus picked Bridget up for school, so he assumed it was something she added when she turned her childhood home into a sanctuary for deserted animals.
That still threw him. Bridget Warner, one of the most hateful people he'd ever met, was now running a shelter for unloved critters. She spent her days feeding, cleaning, and loving animals who didn't have a home. Every time he learned something new about her, a piece of his resentment toward her died. Piece by piece, it was withering away to nothing. And it was being replaced by... well, he wasn't sure. Fondness? Respect? Maybe-
Just as he rounded the corner on the east side of the house, his eyes caught sight of a fuzzy blur seconds before pain radiated through his kneecaps.
He stumbled back, clutching his leg in pain. “Son of a bitch!”
“Garrison?”
Of course, Bridget chose that moment to open the door, and the goat that just rammed him decided to back up and take another charge.
“Shit!”
He lunged back around the corner of the house, arms flailing in the air as his boots fought to find enough leverage to run. Surprised and more than a little frightened, he scrambled clumsily in hopes of escaping the miniature sledgehammer, only to swing around the corner at an uncontrollable speed and plow right into Bridget.
The two of them fell to the floor in a tangle of limbs and curses.
“What are you doing?” Bridget screeched, pushing against his shoulders.
“Getting my kneecaps blown out by your damn goat!”
Pissed off and beyond embarrassed, he struggled to push himself off her tiny frame, but met resistance. Looking down, he discovered that the prongs of his belt buckle were tangled in the strings of the apron she wore around her waist. He swore under his breath as he tried to jerk free, but he was thoroughly stuck.
“Get off me, Garrison! You're freaking crushing me!”
She continued to push at his shoulders, but there was no untangling them unless Garrison removed his belt or Bridget untied her apron. He briefly contemplated pulling his knife from his pocket and freeing them, but figured that would result in an epic freak out from the woman he was currently squishing.
“Would you stop squirming around for a second?” He ground out. “We're stuck.”
“That's exactly what every woman wants to hear while she's pinned under a man.”
Garrison's head snapped back in surprise. She was still annoyed, but there was laughter in her voice as she grinned and panted from the struggle. In that moment, he cursed himself for not keeping his damn head down and untangling himself. Because the vision resting beneath him was enough to send a bolt of desire through his blood and straight to a place it had no business being.
His eyes, clearly not getting the hint that they were supposed to be playing nice, roamed over the swell of Bridget's breasts rising and falling beneath her white t-shirt. They ventured lower, taking in her athletic build, her thin waist, her full hips. It had been entirely too long since he'd been near a woman, especially a woman this beautiful who smelled like peaches and sunshine.
He cursed again as he swelled painfully against his zipper.
Down, boy.
When his eyes finally returned to Bridget's face, he found her skin burning bright crimson, her lip tucked firmly between her teeth. She was trying to suppress a grin, while he was trying and failing to suppress something a little harder.
“Hold still,” she said, giggling.
Garrison followed her hands as she reached to the side of her waist and untied the apron strings. His breathing shallowed and he berated himself for having such a dishonorable reaction to something so innocent. It was just an apron. His grandma used to wear an apron. Hell, he'd even wore an apron once or twice while working in the chow hall as a private.
So why did the sight of her untying the strings send him into a tailspin?
It's been too long, man. Too. Fucking. Long. Now quit being a neanderthal and get the hell off her.
Once they both managed to get to their feet, they dusted themselves off and Garrison searched for the damn creature that caused the whole debacle. But, of course, he was nowhere to be found.
“Where the hell'd he go?” He looked around the porch, out into the front yard, the pasture, but the smelly demon was nowhere to be found. “I turned the corner and this damn-”
“Huck.”
He stopped, cocking his head in confusion. “What?”
“The goat that thinks he's a guard dog.” Her thin fingers deftly retied her apron. “His name is Huck. It's funny, I've seen him take down quite a few people, but never anyone of your-” her eyes roamed up and down the length of his body as a mischievous grin pulled at her unpainted lips, “...stature.”
Garrison cleared his throat and smiled shyly, trying to regain a smidgen of the confidence he'd had once upon a time before being assaulted by a fuzzy lawnmower.
“Well, to be fair, he didn't knock me down,” he said pointedly. “You did.”
She exhaled a breathy laugh and shook her head.
“Actually, if you want to get technical, you tripped over me as you were fleeing.”
He couldn't argue with that.
“True,” he grimaced. “Sorry about that.”
One slim shoulder lifted in a shrug. “At least next time you decide to run and scream like a little girl, I'll be prepared.”
“I didn't squeal.”
She narrowed her eyes, challenging him. “No? That's not what that was?”
“No.”
He clenched his teeth to keep from smiling at the way she was trying to bait him. They stared off, blue eyes clashing with green, lips pursed to contain the laughter threatening to break free.
Finally, she shook her head.
“Fine. You didn't squeal. You screamed obscenities like a big, strong man...”
“Thank you.”
“...and then fled like a little girl.”
“I-” His chin dropped to his chest as he let his laughter flow free. She had him. There was no point arguing with her. “Okay. You win.”
“I usually do.” She smiled warmly. “Now, c'mon inside before he comes back and decides to finish you off.”
When he was done dusting off the sides of his jeans, he followed Bridget inside. After toeing off his boots in the mudroom, he stepped into the living room and looked around while she headed off to the kitchen. In the light of day, he was able to appreciate her style.
What once looked to be wood paneling had been painted over with a shade of light yellow. All the light fixtures were simple and steel, giving the room a modern feel, and the floor was dotted with leather couches and armchairs, only one of them worn and well lived in. The bright room was crisp and clean while still feeling down-to-earth and homey.
“What's your poison?” Bridget called from the kitchen. “I've got water, sweet tea, and beer.”
“Water's fine.”
Garrison followed her voice and found her laying grilled cheese sandwiches along a griddle. His eyes bounced around, noting that in the light of day, everything looked different. The kitchen, much like the living room, was just as streamlined and modern. A double-doored, stainless steel fridge gleamed in the corner and the surrounding cabinets were all new and stained gray to give them a barn wood effect. Planks of wide hardwood flooring ran from one doorway to the other, dusted with paw prints, but beautiful nonetheless.
Bridget filled two bowls with clam chowder and once she joined him at the table, Garrison thanked her and they proceeded to eat in companionable silence. Other than the barking of dogs outside and dull music coming from a radio somewhere in the house, it was peaceful. That itself was a nice change for Garrison. No yelling of rowdy Marines. No arguing. No pounding on the walls. No boots tapping against cold, concrete floors.
When the last spoonful of chowder was gone and his plate held only crumbs, Garrison leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and took in a deep breath. As his muscles fell slack, he let the calm of the place wash over him until he felt a pair of blue eyes break through his trance.
“Is it always this calm around here?” He asked, his eyes still curtained.
She huffed out a laugh. “Are you kidding? It's usually a madhouse.”
He opened his eyes and leaned forward on his elbows, finding himself interested in the place and everything she had to say about it.
“How so?”
“Well, let's see,” she wiped her mouth on a cloth napkin and laid it next to her bowl. “I currently have four cats, three dogs, two cows, and a goat. If they're not all bugging each other, they're usually bugging me.”
“What's the turnover like?”
“Slow. There's not a huge stray problem in Till Park, but after the holidays it always picks up.” She smiled sadly.
Garrison didn't follow. “Why's that?”
“Well, I get the overflow from all the surrounding cities. Bigger shelters contact me and I usually make a few runs in the spring, picking up all the puppies and kittens that are just reaching their awkward teenage phase. Ninety-nine-percent of them are Christmas or Valentines Day gifts people outgrew.”
“Outgrew?” Garrison leaned forward, no longer relaxed. “How the hell can someone outgrow an animal?”
“Your guess is as good as mine, but it happens more frequently than most people realize.”
“That's... pathetic.” He shook his head, disgusted with humankind and their flippant attitude toward other living things.
“I agree. But that's my job. I keep them fed and happy until I can find their forever home.”
Garrison watched, intrigued by the content smile on her face. It was clear she loved those animals and she loved her work. Even though it was the last thing he ever imagined her doing, it seemed she'd invested everything in those helpless critters who'd been tossed out into the cruel, unforgiving world. The job seemed to suit her just fine, but it was clear it wasn't just a job to her. It was her calling.
“You seem to be doing pretty well for yourself,” he said. “How's the rest of your life been treating you?”
Bridget's eyes softened as she sat back in her chair and regarded him with unbridled curiosity and just a hint of skepticism.
“Garrison...” She paused to clear her throat. “I appreciate you having lunch with me and giving me the chance to properly apologize, but why are you going out of your way to be civil when I clearly don't deserve it?” She lifted her hands off the table, palms up, her fingers reaching for answers. “I was a bitch to everyone, especially you, and you despised me. So why are you sitting there, chatting me up like we're old friends? I'm over here trying to make amends, but you... I guess I just don't get why you're still here. I don't understand what you want.”
Bridget's eyebrows drew together as she searched Garrison's face. He wasn't sure what she was looking for, but as she sat there holding her breath, he vowed to give it to her in spades.
He wasn't sure what had changed her, but there was no mask, no front. Everything about this woman was raw and genuine and completely vulnerable. She took a huge risk showing him that side of her, and he decided he wanted more. He wanted to know this new woman and put the old one to rest.
He planted his eyes on Bridget's face, trying to replace all the hateful sneers she'd thrown his way with the kindness in her eyes she was showing him now. Bridget was truly beautiful. But not concealed, permed, and push-up-bra beautiful like she used to be.
This woman was authentic and completely transparent in a way he'd never known her to be. She wasn't trying to hide anything or be more than she was. The messy bun, the tight work clothes, the flawless complexion dotted with freckles... it wasn't a front or a mask.
It was simply Bridget.
“A little more answering and a lot less staring would be nice, Garrison.”
He dropped his gaze the second she called him out. He wasn't the type to blush, but his face heated all the same as he shook his head and let a smile shine through the embarrassment.
“Sorry,” he said. “Got a little lost in thought for a minute.”
She leaned forward, placing one hand on the table between their bodies.
“You didn't answer my question.”
Despite the insecurity lacing her voice, her blue eyes were still bright, clear, and confident. Her lack of annoyance proved just how much she'd changed in the last ten years, and it was clear how she'd accomplished such a feat. Somehow, she'd found the yin to her yang. She had balance in her life. Balance and peace. And he strove to add one more thing to that pair.
Truth.
“I'm not going to lie. Last night, I came out here just to see if the crazy cat lady claims were true.” Garrison smiled, hoping that wouldn't piss her off.
It didn't. She smiled right back and pointed to the top of the cabinet behind his head. He turned to find a black cat perched three feet above his head, snoring softly in a fruit bowl.
“Partly true.” She winked.
“Well, even if it is true, you seem really happy. Like a completely different person... A person I could actually like.”
She blushed as he reached across the table and patted her hand. “Plus, you haven't tried to drag me to the bathroom to give me a swirlie, so there's that...”
Her head fell back as a throaty laugh left her lips. Unrestrained happiness exploded into the air with the sound, causing Garrison's chest to constrict and fill with an overwhelming warmth he'd never expected her to be the cause of.
When she righted herself, she swung her arm across her body and snapped.
“Damn. I was just working up to that.”
They continued to laugh, but when there was nothing easy left to say, Bridget cleared her throat and let her smile falter.
“I understand if you wished me ill. I don't blame you. But I really want you to know that if I could go back and change it, I would. And-” she paused, bracing her arms against the table to keep herself firm. “You can't hate me anymore than I already hate myself.”
Without thinking, Garrison reached for her hand and took it in his. What was even more surprising was the fact that she let him. When his skin met hers, a squadron of electric tingles sprinted their way up his arm and made a beeline for his chest. He managed not to gasp, but his eyes instantly shot to her lips; the lips that he should absolutely not be thinking about.
“I don't hate you,” he said. “We all make mistakes.”
“Yeah, I just happened to drag everyone down with mine.” Her condescending smile tore at his gut, but not in the way it used to. It disturbed him because it was no longer aimed out into the world. She'd turned the blade inward. At herself. “I couldn't have been a normal teen with self-destructive habits. No, I had to go after everyone else.”
When Bridget looked away, Garrison clung to her hand, offering himself up as the lifeline she so desperately needed. She closed her eyes, squeezing his palm as she bit her lip, deep in thought.
“I just want to start over,” she whispered. “I don't want to forget, but I want to move past what I used to be. I want to be more than my mistakes, you know?”
Garrison had a feeling that she was talking about more than being a high school bully, but he didn't pry.
“You already are.”
Bridget absentmindedly caressed Garrison's rough and calloused knuckles as she chewed on the side of her lip, perhaps considering his words. Her cautious eyes flitted downward and began tracing the hard angles of his hands.
Following her gaze, he took notice of all the tiny scars dotting his tanned skin. Those hands had been to war, been in fist fights, and pulled him to safety on more than a dozen occasions. They were hands of a fighter.
