Page 29 of Small Town, Big Storm

“Don’t,” he snaps when I crouch down, my fingers carefully positioned to pick up one of the slivers.“Just fuckingdon’t,” he growls.

I stand as he bends and grabs the shards—and does it much less carefully than I would have.

“Here,” I say quietly a few moments later, setting the trash can in front of him.

Stormy gray eyes clash with mine, but I don’t linger.Instead, I just go back behind the bar, snag the broom and dustpan we keep there, giving him a wide berth as I start to sweep the pieces that scattered far and wide.

“For the glass,” he mutters, tossing a hundred on the bar.

“It cost $2.27,” I mutter back, picking the bill up and shoving it at him.“That’s far too much.”

He takes it, tosses it on the counter again.“Then it’s for the glassandthe drinks.”

Which still wouldn’t even bring us halfway to a hundred freaking dollars.“I?—”

He shoves the trash can away, keeps sweeping.“Just shut the fuck up and take the money, okay?”

I shut the fuck up.

But there’s absolutely no way I’m taking that money.

Especially when he snatches the broom and dustpan from me and aggressively sweeps up the broken glass.

Asshole.

With nothing else to do, I go back behind the bar and grab a towel, the bottle of cleaner.

I spray and wipe, managing to finish the process without Storm taking over.

Then, without anything else to do, I stand there.

Watching him.

My heart hurting.My stomach in knots.And the sinking sensation that everything in my life changed the moment Storm drove back into Cedar Hollow.

Whether it’s for the good or bad, I don’t know.

He sighs as he snaps the broom and dustpan together, rounds the bar, not stopping until he’s a mere foot away from me.

Silently, he lifts them in my direction.

I take them just as silently.

Set them aside equally so.

But when I look back at him, the rage and fury are still there even though he says, the words coolly calm, “I’m sorry.I shouldn’t have done that.”

The glass or the leaving me pregnant and alone without any way to contact you?I want to ask.

But I don’t or can’t or maybe it’s just that Iwon’t.

Open that can of worms up.Open my heart up to the hurt and fear and guilt.

Open my life to this man.

It’s not safe, every instinct in me screams.

So, I don’t tell him that it’s okay, don’t do anything but nod toward the door.“Maybe we should talk when it’s not the middle of the night.”My words are quiet.