All I Am. Nicole Helm
how together she was. That she could pause and think before acting.
“I can’t quit.”
“Yes, you can. In fact—”
“This is all I have right now. As much as I think you’re being kind of a, well, something I can’t say to the man I want to not fire me. I’d rather be here than back at the farm supply store.”
“What about that hair place?”
“They already replaced me. I can fill in, but that’s only in emergencies. Even this job doesn’t cover all my expenses. It’s supposed to be my motivation to ask Sam for another chance at the pie thing. So you can’t take it away. I won’t let you.”
Maybe that was why he didn’t understand her self-deprecating, fold-under-pressure speech. He’d yet to see her fold under anything. She stood her ground. She swept in where she had no business being. She’d somehow convinced him to give her his dog.
She was a hurricane, and hurricanes didn’t fold.
“Then let’s go inside and work. And not talk. This, this right here is why I don’t do the chitchat thing.”
She muttered a curse under her breath, and he was pretty sure it was directed at him. He couldn’t hold it against her.
He walked toward the house, and she followed. This was some kind of truce. It was better than where they’d been when she’d put flowers in her hair and asked him how she looked.
Beautiful. Breathtaking. Words a guy like him didn’t think, let alone say aloud. But Cara defied his norm. The talking about not having animals when he was a kid, and commenting on her life and choices. That wasn’t something he did with anyone else. He’d been trying to be normal, but it had spiraled out of his control.
Thank God she defied his norm in annoying ways, too. As long as she could push his buttons, he was safe. Don’t worry, Wes, your virginity is very, very safe.
But instead of heading inside, she stepped in front of him. He had no choice but to look at her. No choice but to be sucked into Hurricane Cara.
“I bombed the job interview. The pie-baking one. The one that would be perfect. Explain that. How I did that. Me, who has been making pies forever. I could do it in my sleep. I put in too much salt. I burnt the edges. He was standing there staring at me, and everything went wrong when it never has before.” She poked him in the chest. “Explain that.”
“Bake the pies beforehand.” The way her tense expression morphed into shock was evidence enough that this had never occurred to her.
“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