Love Me Crazy (18 page)

He shakes his head, hand gripping mine. “I’m not asking you to reconcile with your parents.” He combs his fingers through his hair and squeezes his neck.

Thunder rumbles in the distance again, and he glances behind him like we’re running out of time. “When I came back, I hadn’t planned on staying. Yes, my sisters are angry.” He taps his
chest.
“My return reminds them of a happier time when our dad was alive. Those same memories remind me of what I did. That truth would kill them and I’m not about to fuck up what progress we’ve made at becoming a family again, even if it isn’t perfect. If you want to call that being a pussy, then fine, I’m a big fucking coward. But I call it penance.” His eyes turn as dark as the cloud moving toward us. Strong like steel. “I’m prepared to deal with whatever they dish out so we can change the future. It’s a risk I’m willing to take to be happy. And to make them happy. If it doesn’t work”—he shrugs— “I’ll deal. Doesn’t mean I’ll like it, but I won’t know if happiness is possible unless I try.”

Had he not said a word, not brought up this touchy subject, I would’ve apologized about last night, admitted to him the thought of finding him in my bed in the morning scared the crap out of me, and then I would’ve told him I was ready to give us a chance, but arguing a lost cause makes me question my better judgment.

“It takes one person to turn your whole world upside-inside-out. And yes, I’m the one, Cassie. I’m
your
someone.”

My heart beats so hard my chest feels bruised. A static rush breaks the silence. Raindrops against leaves, against the moss, the ground. The huge oaks shelter us from the storm, protect us from the outside world, locking me inside a different, unfamiliar world with him. One where possibilities and successful relationships exist. But that’s not reality; that’s what fantasies are for.

“What are you scared of?” he asks.

Quinn’s chin comes in to focus. I follow the contour of his jaw. His tan cheek, the point of his nose. As I focus on his eyes, rain seeps through our umbrella.

“Permanent destruction. The inability to rebuild my heart after someone claims it, steals it, and runs. After they’re gone and all I am is another empty hole. I don’t want to need anyone.”

I
drop my gaze, jerk my arm loose and run up the road. Lightning streaks the sky, causing a fractured blast to spread across the road. Thunder chases the light into the shadows. Wind picks up, sending Spanish moss tumbling across the road. Puddles emerge like stepping-stones and I weave between them, the trees’ cracks and moans cheering me to the end. I duck under a flower-laden trellis and head toward the white brick house.

Quinn walks slowly toward me. Rain soaks though his clothes, making his white shirt translucent gray like the ghosting of a dream. A dream I should dissolve. But it’s too late. I already need him. Soaked to the bone, my body shakes. Not from the cold, but from Quinn being right.

“Let’s get you dried off. Come on.”

I glance at his outstretched hand. Water droplets dangle from his fingertips like the perfectly crafted crystal hanging from the foyer chandelier.

I nod, stretch out my hand and the instant our fingers touch, I know I’ve handed him my heart. My trust. All of me.

A screech penetrates the monotonous drone of rainfall as he pulls the screen door open.

“This was my dad’s office.” He pushes at the ornately carved door until it gives. “It’s a time capsule now. No one comes here except my uncle.”

“When’s the last time you were here?” I step into a scaled-down version of the main house. Paneled walls stretch to the ceiling, a Confederate flag hangs in the stairwell, and an extraordinary collection of rifles line the walls. A hunter’s paradise. Or a psycho killer’s.

“The day my dad died.”

Cold shock spreads through my veins. Is that why Kat wouldn’t bring me? She’d fled, leaving me Quinn’s responsibility. This must be killing him.

“
I’m so sorry. You don’t have to stay.” I glance up the stairs. “The silk is up there. I can find it if you want to leave.”

“I’m fine.” He slides a curtain open. Dust motes suspend in the air until he slings the second curtain open, causing dust to roll in waves.

We both cough and swat at the air, backing away from the window.

“Maybe you should leave the curtains alone,” I say after several sneezes.

“I think you’re right.” He threads his fingers through mine and leads me under an arch. “Wait here. I’ll find some towels.”

I shake my hands, willing them to warm, then rub my arms pointlessly. Water dribbles down my back, sending chills dancing across my skin. Several blankets hang off the arm of a leather couch under the windows. Grabbing the top one, I wrap it around my shoulders. At the end of the sofa is a side table. I lean closer, spotting something shiny below the glass top.

“Relics found in the field,” Quinn says as he tosses a stack of white towels on the couch. He grabs the top one and runs it over his head. His back muscles flex.

When the cords move, they roll like struck chimes, reminding me of the time I went to the ballet with my mother and watched a musician brush his cotton-topped mallet across the assorted tubes. I was supposed to be counting measures, studying note length and syncopated rhythm, but all I could hear was the beauty of the chimes.

I could count Quinn’s chords all night. I could study his length and enjoy the rhythms we make together. He dabs the droplets on my face with the towel and I blink until he’s in focus.

I push the towel away and turn toward the display, squeezing my eyes shut. I shake my head and stare at the circular objects under the glass and point at the collection before Quinn asks
me
what’s wrong and dances around on fucking gold because I have to admit he’s right and I do avoid my past. “Your dad was a collector?” My voice shakes. “What are those?”

“Buttons found in the grove. The one with the palmetto tree, that was Dad’s favorite.”

“Buttons from what?” Rust had eaten through the bottom right of one, damaging its overall worth. But I doubt these were kept in an unlocked house no one visited for their monetary value.

“Soldier uniforms. The palmetto one I found behind the house during planting season when I was twelve. The eagle pieces are Union. Dad always said we’d find more of those because we fought harder on our own land, refused to die and give up what was rightfully ours.”

I move to the display at the opposite end. “And you believed him?”

“I believed everything he said.” He opens up a cabinet along the back wall, pulling my attention from a grid of imperfect bullets and dark marble-size balls. “You asked about the family business.” He closes the cabinet and turns toward me. “This is my family’s past, present, and future. Covington blue.”

I tilt the frame down, knocking the glare away. Mounted in the top center is a sun-faded, blue cloth no larger than a postcard, edges tattered and torn beyond repair and holes worn through in the center. In the lower left, pressed between two thin glass sheets, is a plant cutting no longer than my finger with several oval leaves—some broken, some whole—stepping up each side like a ladder. To the right, between another set of glass plates, is a dusting of royal-blue powder finer than confectioner sugar.

“What is it?”

“What’s left of the first state flag dyed with Covington indigo from this plantation. In the 1800s my greats built a successful indigo business. As times changed so did the business. We
switched
to synthetic dyes. Now we’re back to using organic materials. Indigo being our primary ingredient.”

This totally explains Ellie’s freak out over the fabric. She’d said it was too navy. “Indigo.”

He takes the frame and props it against the back wall on the shelf. “Dad was notorious for his experiments. There wasn’t anything he wouldn’t try to improve the laborious process. We have greenhouses and laboratories all over the Southeast, all searching for the next best natural dye.”

“So who runs the business now? Is it something you want to do?”

He grips the desk chair and stares at an antique photo propped against the banker’s lamp. “When Dad died, I blocked out anything having to do with the plantation.” His breath trips over his lips. His gaze freezes on mine.

I glance away and pretend to check the storm.

“Are you warm yet?” he asks.

I pull the blanket tighter, jumping at the chance to change the conversation. “I’m a wet warm. I’ve soaked this blanket.”

Quinn glances at the blanket, the others on the sofa, then grimaces. He turns on the desk lamp. “Where did you find that?”

I point at the pile.

He pulls the edge away from my neck, then squeezes a section of my wet hair. His eyes grow large and he lets out a nervous laugh.

“What?”

“
Those are an experiment gone wrong. There’s nothing but dried indigo collected after the reduction process in the fibers. Dad’s attempt to skip using a controlled vat. I can’t believe they’re still here.”

The blankets on the couch are different shades, layered from light to dark, the darkest being the one I grabbed. “What does that mean?”

“It means you wrapped yourself in a package of dye and added water. But most likely the experiment didn’t work and most of the dye will wash away after a good scrubbing.”

“Most?” I drop the blanket and spin around, pulling my shirt around my waist. I cringe, seeing my fingers. “Oh, shit.”

“It’s okay, I’ll start a shower upstairs.”

“I’m blue.”

“I bet it will come off.”

I rake my fingers through my saturated hair. “My hair, it’s purple.”

“Red and blue don’t make green.” He laughs again.

My heart pounds in my chest. “I can’t be seen like this, I can’t—”

Quinn walks toward the stairs. “It will come out.”

“And if it doesn’t?” I hold my hand out. Blue drips off my fingers, big droplets of fucking blue. “Oh God. I’m spouting ink like a fountain pen.”

He pulls his lips to the side, biting back a grin.

“It’s not funny.” My heart does a flip in my chest.

“It kind of is.”

I smack him amicably, transferring dye to his shirt. “Oh, sorry.”

“
No you’re not.” He pulls his rain-soaked shirt over his head at the top of the stairs. My handprint covers his tattoo. In blue.

“Nooo!” I move to cover my mouth.

Quinn grabs my wrist. “Don’t touch your face.”

“My skin,” I cry, “will look like that?” I point at his chest.

He tugs at my shirt hem.

“Not over my face!”

“Right. In here.” He rushes down the hall, laughter lifting his voice.

I nearly trip over his heels trying to keep up. Maybe I got lucky and the dye didn’t settle into my skin? But I barely touched him and his chest turned blue.

He grabs my hand, yanks me into a shockingly white bathroom, and cranks the shower on full blast. “The coldest water you can stand is best. Indigo thrives in heat.”

He rustles through the cabinets, grabs a first aid kit, and pulls out scissors. “Hold still.”

Pulling my shirt away from my skin, he cuts the fabric. His hands turn blue from handling my clothes. He cranks the sink faucet on and dips his fingers under the water, lathering them furiously until the water runs clear. He reaches for my shirt.

I step back. “Don’t. You’ll be as blue as me.”

“Not possible.”

I whimper.

He laughs, his dimple dancing in his cheek.

“This isn’t funny, Quinn. What am I going to do? I can’t go to Ellie’s functions dressed like a . . . Smurf. And work—Oh my God!”

“It’s not that bad.”

“
I’m blue!” I glance at the mirror right at that moment. Every shade from midnight to sky blue stripes my stomach, my chest, my bra. “I’m a zebra, a fucking blue zebra!”

“Whatever you do, don’t touch your face.” He pulls out gloves and slips them on, snapping them like he’s diving into surgery. “Maybe you should hop in the shower and rinse your clothes.”

“No way, get these off now.” I stomp, sending blue splattering across the white tiles.

“Yes, ma’am.” He peels the shirt off me like a coat, turning me away from the mirror. “Do you want me to cut your jeans?”

“No, I’ll . . .” I rub my discolored fingers together. “I’m already blue, I’ll just, oh God.” I undo the button and slip my jeans down. My knees are darker than my legs. I release a cry.

I kick off my shoes, step out of my jeans, and Quinn yanks back the shower curtain. I’m scared to touch anything, not wanting to turn the whole house blue, but I slip stepping into the tub and reach for the closest thing. Quinn.

He rights me but I can’t breathe.

“What?” he says.

I slowly point at his face. He turns toward the mirror. Dots cover his cheek and forehead like a terrible case of chicken pox. I laugh. He doesn’t.

“Move over.” He steps in the shower, tosses his gloves to the bottom, and rinses his face, scrubbing with his fingertips.

“Want my help?” I laugh as I undo my bra and grimace at my navy nipples.

“Uh, no.” He turns. “What do you—” His eyes drop to my hands covering my boobs, my panties, which were once pink, then my legs. He reaches for the soap and hands it to me.

“Scrub.”

I
scrub so furiously, I’m down to my last layer of skin. “It isn’t coming off.”

“Turn.”

He rubs the soap over my back, around my shoulders, through my hair.

“You’ll have to scrub harder,” I say over my shoulder, panic changing my words into a demand.

He wraps an arm around my waist, pulling me against him as he presses the soap into my skin. “Periwinkle is a good color on you.”

“I look hideous.”

“Clothes will cover it up.”

“And my hair?”

“I like it.” He releases me and slips the soap back into its spot.

I turn around, naked and cold, teeth chattering, to find him searching my eyes. Water drips over the linear clefts marking his abs, following a barbed vine south. His jeans, soaked through, suction to his curves, especially the bulge locked behind his zipper.

His eyes peruse my body.