All I Am

“Before...”

“If it’s the pressure that gets to you, bake it in a no-pressure zone. Then take it to him. If he’s the suspicious sort, have your sister watch you or video you or something.”

“But what if I get the job? I can’t video everything.”

“Tell him you’d rather use your own kitchen. It’s not like you’re going to sit in his restaurant making pies to order. It takes too long, doesn’t it? You’ll want to make dough in batches, make the filling in batches, right? Like a diner.”

“How did you...? That never even... Why didn’t he...? Why didn’t I...?”

Here was the choice. One he usually didn’t struggle with, but Cara’s vulnerability under all the strength she didn’t seem to think she had made it hard to be the close-the-door-in-her-face kind of guy he would prefer to be. “I’ve spent a lot of time learning to avoid my anxiety triggers. You have an obstacle, you find a way to circumnavigate it. Defuse it.”

“Wes.” She said his name with wonder. As if he was helping or something, and that made him uncomfortable enough to bring the harsh side of him back out.

“What you don’t do is wimp out, then whine about it.”

Yeah, that snapped any sweet appreciation off her face as easily as a slap might have.

She crossed her arms over her chest. Which tugged the top of her tank top down a little. A strip of neon pink lace poked out from beneath it.

Stop looking.

“But if it is anxiety, which I’m not all that certain it is, I can’t make it go away.”

“Do you think I’m telling you that?” He pointed at Phantom, who was sitting uneasily off to the side. Assessing. “Dude with a therapy dog. I had military-required therapy and psychoanalysis. I’m saying you find a way to deal. It’s called coping. It’s healthy and whatever.”

“No offense, Wes, but you don’t strike me as the most mentally healthy guy.” She closed her eyes, and her mouth twisted in a pained expression. “Please, ignore me.”

“I keep trying.”

Her mouth quirked up. “I guess I’m not very good at fading into the background. But, um, I shouldn’t have said that.”

“I’m not mentally healthy.” He was bitter, angry, frustrated. Then there was his physical health. “In fact, I’m a mess. Which—it is what it is. But you should know that. Accept it. You want to keep this job as your motivation, you’re going to have to understand this is me.”

She cocked her head, studying him in a way that made him want to squirm. Only calling on his military training kept him from doing it. He was tempted to stand at attention.

“You don’t scare me, you know.”

“I thought you folded under pressure.”

“Pressure. Expectation.” She frowned. “Hope. That’s when I fold, when I know I should be better. Fear? Well, I’m not afraid of people who can’t hurt me.”

“I could fire you.”

“You could, but for as much of a mess as you are, I don’t think you’re cruel.”

She had his number. “No.”

“Then, I’ll get back to it.” With that, she turned on a heel and waltzed into the house. His house, and yet again, he didn’t know what to do about it.

* * *

CARA GLANCED AT the clock. 4:28 p.m. Two more minutes, then she was out of this loony bin. Of course, she was coming back on Wednesday. And Thursday. Week after week.

Unless she started looking for work elsewhere, which was probably what she should do. Every time she thought of Wes saying, “Try harder,” she wanted to punch him. Right in the nerve damage.

But then she thought about the way he called himself a mess and she wanted to... She didn’t know. Something warm and fuzzy and foreign. Because usually when it came to messes, Cara steered way clear. She was not the clean-up-a-mess girl. She maybe could help if someone needed something easy, like Mia had. But not deep-seated-issue messes. She was a hey-wanna-slap-on-some-lipstick-and-drown-your-sorrows type.

Why the heckity heck was Wes different? Just because she had the hots for him? That was sad, even for her. She’d overlooked a guy’s flaws before, but they were usually flaws like he never paid for dinner or didn’t have a job.

Not, like, therapy dogs and war injuries. That was heavy stuff. Stuff to run away from so she didn’t make a situation worse, like she had during her brief relationship with James. And yet, given the chance with Wes, she hadn’t run. Nor had she made light of the situation.

She’d stood up to him.

Huh.

Two thuds interrupted her obsessing, and when she looked to the office entrance, Wes was standing there. His arms were crossed, and his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. For the first time, she could see that the scars on his hand went up the length of his forearm and disappeared beyond the sleeve.

She wasn’t supposed to look, but it was hard. She was curious. She wondered what he’d gone through, if it still hurt, if she could help.

“You can leave now.”

She wanted to laugh at how ridiculous he sounded. He’d hired her, but he didn’t want her here. Sometimes he acted as if he liked her—he’d given her a dog—and other times he acted as if she was gum on the bottom of his shoe. Try harder.

She should quit. That was the bottom line. She needed to quit and beg Miranda for her job at the salon back. Or find a whole different job. Somewhere in Millertown.

But then Sweetness yipped happily at her feet, and the desire to quit receded. He’d given her a dog. His dog. He wasn’t all bad. Just, well, like he said, a mess.

Maybe if she learned how to deal with someone else’s much harder mess, she’d figure out how to deal with her own.

“I’ll be back bright and early Wednesday morning.” She lifted her chin, daring him to argue.

He gave her the slightest of nods, and she got the distinct impression he was purposefully not saying anything.

That was fine and dandy. They didn’t need to talk. They didn’t even need to be friends. He could be gruff, silent boss man, and she would be A-plus administrative assistant lady.

She gathered up her things and clipped Sweetness’s leash onto her collar, but when she walked over to him so she could leave, he didn’t move out of the doorway. He blocked it, arms still crossed, all frowny and...

Hot. The word you are looking for is hot. She had no idea how, but his mountain man flannel and hair had become something of an obsession.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice so low and grumbly she barely made out the words.

It was possibly the most sincere apology she’d ever gotten. He was uncomfortable, and his enunciating could use some work, but that was what made it so genuine.

It wasn’t BS. It was very real. Very honest. She didn’t know what to do about that, except be honest back.

“You weren’t wrong, even if you were kind of jerky about it.”

“Yeah, well. I’m sorry for the jerky part.”

Sweetness tugged on the leash, obviously ready to get outside, but Cara wasn’t ready for it because she was still a little off-kilter from the apology. Instead of holding on tight and tugging back, she bumped right into Wes.

A hard wall of muscle. Yowza.

He gripped her elbow with his unscarred hand. “She needs some work on her obeying.”

I would gladly obey. Talking about a dog. Not her. Right. Cara swallowed. “Well, I should get her outside, huh?”

He maneuvered her via the arm he held, so they switched places. He was now in his office, and she was in the door frame.

“Right. Well. See you Wednesday.”

He nodded, giving no indication he felt any of the same crazy attraction electricity she got every time he was all whatever that was.

She should be glad he didn’t feel it, but she remembered the way he’d blushed when she asked him how she looked with the buttercups in her hair. He wasn’t immune, and she wanted to know why he insisted on pretending he was.

Except he was her boss and, of his own admission, not mentally healthy.

“Did you need something else?”

“Nope. I’m good,” she said brightly. Too brightly, but oh, well. He was always too grumpy, and she could be too cheerful. Maybe they’d balance each other out.

Hardy-har-har.

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